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CCEXRIGHI OEFDSm 




^' Along the rough passageway leading to the salt-beds.''^ 

{Page 2g) 



IN THE 
HOMES OF MARTYRS 



BY THE ^ " 

VERY REVEREND JAMES A. WALSH, M.Ap. 

SUPERIOR OF MARYKNOLL 




PUBLISHED BY THE 

CATHOLIC FOREIGN MISSION SOCIETY 
OF AMERICA 

MARYKNOLL : : : NEW YORK 






Arthur J. Scanlan, S.T.D. 

Censor of Books 



Imprimatur: 

Patrick J. Hayes, D.D. 

Archbishop of New York 



Copyright, 1922, by the 

Catholic Foreign Mission Society of America 

MaryknoU, N. Y. 

Printed in the United States of America 

DEC -6 1922 

©CU692674 
*^0 I 






families of iHarpiaoll minmruvfi in Cj)ina, 

tlfifi little booli is KeUicateDi a£t an appreciation of tl^eir 

senerottfii anH unfiselfinl^ spirit* 

;<8lap tlfee S)ttpreme ijHartjr retoart t\itm, 

anil 
map tl^e ©tieen of ;partptfi; protect tl^em! 



FOREWORD 

The visits recorded in this volume were made sev- 
eral years ago and an account of them appeared 
shortly afterwards in The Field Afar, organ of the 
Catholic Foreign Mission Society of America. They 
are now published in book form, so as to reach a far 
wider circle of readers and to interest them in the 
lives of these splendid young nineteenth-century 
martyrs. 

— THE AUTHOR 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ON THE HEIGHTS OF LYONS 

The Surviving Mother of a Martyr 3 

IN THE VENDfiE 

I. The Drive to St. Hilaire 15 

II. The Dorie Home 25 

AT DIJON 

I. The Chateau of Bretenieres 37 

11. Reminiscences of the Martyr's Brother... 50 

III. A Second Visit to Father Christian 58 

NEAR BOURG 

I. The Journey to Cuet 69 

II. The Chanel Homestead 79 

III. The Martyr's Relatives and His Boyhood 

Home 87 

IV. A Day with the Cure of Cuet 95 

ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

L The Martyr's Brother 107 

II. A Day at Assais 115 

III. The Home at St. Loup 122 

IV. The Pilgrimage to Bel-Air 131 

V. A Sunday with the Abbe Venard 138 

VI. Adieu to Assais 143 

VII. A Last Visit to Father Venard 147 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

'^ Along the rough passageway leading to the salt- 
beds.'' Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

Madame Bechet; Gaspard Bechet; Rue des Machabees 4 

Henry Dorie; A Landmark; Town of St. Hilaire 16 ' 

" There he was, the man with the hoe,'' 28 

'^She might have stepped from some old canvas," 28 

Just de Bretenieres; His Mother; The Chateau :^'^ 

Father Christian de Bretenieres 50 

" The apartment opened directly on the courtyard." 60 

Pierre Chanel; His Birthplace; Town of Cras 70 

^^A remote mission could hardly he poorer than this" 80 

" The actual home of the martyr — across the fields" 80 

*^We made a circuit of the house," 90 

*' The Charnay family — a broken line." 90 

^^ There were not a great many houses in the road, but we 

entered all." 100 

^^ Smiling quizzically as she eyed the stranger." no 

Theophane Venard; His Birthplace; St. Loup-on-Thouet 122 

The Martyrdom of Father Charles Cornay 132 

Canon Eusebius Venard in his Study 138 ' 

" The patriarchal Henry was cordial and his faithful Kebis 

seemed friendly." 146 

Tailpieces: Early Christian symbols found in the Cata- 
combs. 

ix 



ON THE HEIGHTS OF LYONS 

GASPARD BfiCHET 




THE SURVIVING MOTHER OF A MARTYR 

|NE day toward the close of May, 1885, 
a telegram arrived at the Paris Semi- 
l nary, containing these words ^^ Bechet 
decapite " — (Bechet beheaded). Five 
weeks later a communication was received from 
the Bishop of West Tongking, Indo-China, stating 
that Father Bechet, an alumnus of the Seminary, 
had indeed been put to death, with three of his 
catechists and four other native Christians. 

Gaspard Claude Bechet belonged to the city of 
Lyons, France, and was ordained in 1881, in which 
year he left Paris for his mission. After two years 
he was threatened with serious lung trouble and 
was sent out for a change of air to visit at leisure 
the principal Catholic settlements in the province 
known as Nam-dinh. 

A newly appointed general of this province had 
just issued a circular promising thirty bars of silver 
to anyone bringing to him a Frenchman, and Father 
Bechet was evidently unaware of his danger, when, 

3 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

after Mass on Trinity Sunday, he set out with his 
companions to walk to a village some miles distant. 
Just before noon as they were passing through a 
considerable settlement (Ke Hou) the priest was 
seized, with his friends, by a group of soldiers who 
took him to their captain, a sworn enemy of the 
Christian faith. A short interrogatory was made 
by the local mandarin, in reply to which Father 
Bechet answered that he was a missionary-priest, 
whose duty was simply to preach religion. 

It was decided that all should be beheaded, the 
priest first; but the faithful group of native Chris- 
tians threw themselves on Father Bechet at the 
moment of execution, to embrace and protect him. 
The young priest asked for a few moments' respite, 
which he used to excite his followers to perfect 
dispositions. Together the little group recited in 
loud voice the act of contrition, and Father Bechet 
gave absolution to his companions. The soldiers 
then immediately despatched the native Christians, 
reserving to the last the death of the priest. They 
wished to bind his hands, but he asked to be left 
free to present his neck to the sabre-blows of his 
executioners. This was done and so numerous 
were the strokes before the final severance that 
the neck was literally hacked to pieces. 

Such was the martyrdom of Gaspard Bechet, 
whose " life " I happened to find in an old paper- 
covered volume at St. John's Seminary in Brighton 

4 





1. Madame Bechet 

2. Gaspard Bechet 

3. Rue des Machabees 




ON THE HEIGHTS OF LYONS 

(Massachusetts). I was attracted to the chapter 
by the fact that the subject of this biography was 
a comparatively recent martyr, and also by a 
"newsy" reference to a street and its number. 
The article proved indeed a " find/' for the author 
had actually visited the mother of this Gaspard 
Bechet and had conversed with her on the subject 
of her son's heroic oblation. I read the sketch 
eagerly and wrote in my notebook the street ad- 
dress, which, by a singular coincidence, was the 
Rue des Machabees, Lyons. 

I was glad, afterwards, to have done so, for un- 
expectedly, at the end of July in the same year, 
1906, I found myself in Lyons, where by a stroke 
of good luck I met the priest who had first called 
my attention to Gaspard Bechet. My stay in the 
city was to be very short, but I had made up my 
mind to look up the Rue des M achat ees, 17, and 
learn what I could about Mme. Bechet. Father 
B shook his head, reminding me that the ac- 
count which I had read was not at all recent and 
that more than twenty years had passed since 
Gaspard Bechet's death. 

We decided, nevertheless, that a visit to the house 
indicated might prove fruitful, and the next morn- 
ing three Boston priests said their Masses at Notre 
Dame, a beautiful votive basilica that from the 
heights of Fourviere looks down upon the lower 
city like a mighty sentinel. When we had in- 

5 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

spected the marvelous interior, over which Mary 
presides as Queen, we went out for the customary 
'' little breakfast " at one of the open air cafes 
bordering the cliff, and planned a busy morning, 
which I had determined should start with a search 
for Mme. Bechet, if she were still among the living 
in this great silk city. 

I had my way, and we found the street, Rue des 
MachabeeSy after a short walk. We passed along 
quickly until we came to No. 17. It was a new 
apartment house, and the rough brick, fresh from 
the kiln, had not yet been covered wdth cement, 
although several families were evidently installed. 
There was no answer to our knock, but after some 
skirmishing in dark courts, which, had I been alone, 
would have made me feel like a book agent or a 
thief, we managed to draw a head from one of the 
lower windows. " Does Mme. Bechet live here? '' 
we asked. 

And the reply came quickly, accompanied by a 
suspicious look: " There is no one of that name in 
this neighborhood.^^ By this time other windows 
were occupied with interested auditors, from whose 
eyes the final vestiges of sleep were just disappear- 
ing, and an impromptu council of the court was 
held. No one had ever heard of the lady. And 
no one had ever heard of her son, the martyr. A 
prophet certainly seems to be without honor in his 
own country, I reflected. My companion urged 

6 



ON THE HEIGHTS OF LYONS 

me to give up further search, as the old lady was 
evidently dead and forgotten, but I pleaded for one 
more try, this time at the parish church, near-by. 

. It was not difficult to find the church, but the 
parochial residence — a dignified name for it — 
was another problem. Finally, after passing under 
arches centuries old, we stumbled into a court-yard 
littered with rubbish, and discovered a door, which 
had the appearance of constant use and suggested 
an ancient respectability that still lingered on its 
escutcheon. It proved to be an entrance to the 
Cure's home and we were admitted without delay. 
The Cure was not in but his assistant, a young 
priest, was pleased to give us all the information 
he possessed, which was little enough. He had 
heard something of Gaspard Bechet, but could not 
recollect anyone speaking of his mother as still 
alive. However, there was, he told us, an old 
woman around the corner, who had covered the 
quartier for three-quarters of a century and was a 
veritable directory of persons and happenings in 
Saint Justy as this neighborhood is called. The 
young priest would run down immediately and 
interview her, which he did, returning in a few 
moments with the news, quite commonplace to him, 
that Mme. Bechet had moved up to Point du Jour 
and was living not far from the house of the Cure 
there, who would certainly give us more precise 
directions. 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

Point du Jour! Was it several miles away? I 
asked, fearing the prospect of an impossible dis- 
tance; and I was relieved to learn that ten minutes 
on the electric cars would take me to the object 
of my search. But it was time then to leave the 
heights and my pilgrimage to a martyr's mother 
must wait. 

The sun was not high the next morning as I 
crossed the Rhone. I passed the Palace of Justice 
to the foot of Fourviere, and mounted the impres- 
sive hillside, just as the city below was stirring into 
full activity. 

At the top as I left the funicular railway, that 
iron conqueror of rocky heights, I found an electric 
car marked Point du Jour, and entered it in acci- 
dental company with a cassocked priest to whom 
I told the object of my errand. Gaspard Bechet — 
it was a new name to him but he would show 
me the Cure's house, and within a quarter of an 
hour I found myself in the presence of an ascetic- 
looking priest, with long gray hair, whose kindly 
expression of countenance indicated a beautiful and 
simple character. 

Yes, he could direct me to Mme. Bechet. " Poor 
woman," he added, '^ she will be glad to see you 
and to speak of her son. She lives quite alone 
across the street and has few friends or acquaint- 
ances.'' The good Cure would have talked at 
length, but I was pressed for time, so he searched 

8 



ON THE HEIGHTS OF LYONS 

his treasures and drew forth a photograph of Gas- 
pard Bechet's class, which he graciously let me 
have. Then together we went out into the white 
light of the hot sun, the old priest walking bare- 
headed until we had reached a point directly op- 
posite Mme. Bechet's apartment, when he bade me 
adieu and hastened back to his home. 

I found myself before a new building not unlike 
that which we had visited on the previous day in 
the Rue des Machabees, — a typical French apart- 
ment house arranged for the poorer classes. I 
jangled the bell and the face of an old lady appeared 
at a window on the first floor, a few feet above the 
street and quite near me. It was Mme. Bechet. 
She looked at me inquiringly, anxiously I thought, 
and I realized the difficulty which I might have in 
establishing my identity. Certainly, the sidewalk 
and a first-story window with gathering spectators 
did not appeal to me as the proper setting for my 
inquiry, so I pronounced the good Cure's name, 
referred to him as my guide, and immediately Mme. 
Bechet drew in the shutters and the gate-bolt 
clicked its invitation to enter the court, where I 
found the object of my search ready to listen to 
my story. 

I followed her into her simple apartment, which, 
so far as I could make out, consisted of a kitchen 
and one other room, the kitchen serving as a recep- 
tion room, at least on this occasion. It was still 

9 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

early and Mme. Bechet felt obliged to apologize for 
some disorder which I took for granted existed, 
but which, as so often happens, a man would hardly 
have noticed had not his attention been called to 
it. I stated the object of my visit, — to congratu- 
late her as the mother of a son who had died 
gloriously in his battle for souls, and to secure 
further information about her boy with a view, 
when opportunity should offer, of making his life 
known as an inspiration to our American youth. 

The poor mother's eyes filled with tears. She 
could not speak at first, but, rising, called my at- 
tention to several photographs of Gaspard which 
hung on the walls of the little room. One taken 
before his departure from the Paris Seminary, 
another in the group which the Cure had just given 
me, and a third in Oriental dress. " Oh, it was 
hard to lose him," she said at length, " so hard to 
be old and alone without him! " He was her only 
child, she told me. She knew that God was good, 
that she should rejoice in her son's noble example 
and in the thought of his eternal glory. She was 
conscious of his help in heaven and that he was 
waiting to greet her, but time passed " oh, so 
slowly! ^' — and his bright, cheerful disposition had 
been such a comfort. Even when he had left her 
for Tongking, his letters were always looked for 
so eagerly. 

I asked if I might be privileged to see a few of 

lO 



ON THE HEIGHTS OF LYONS 

his letters. '^ Ah, his letters! '' she replied sadly. 
She had passed them to friends who wished to read 
them, and many of those precious letters had never 
been returned. '' Photographs? '' I could see 
what she had, and she would look for others, but my 
visit was so unexpected that she could not think, 
and if I would call again she would have her house 
in order and souvenirs at her hand. It seemed to 
please Mme. Bechet to be told that American Cath- 
olics are interested to know more about the Church's 
modern martyrs, and that her son's letters would 
doubtless be welcome reading and would do much 
good for souls. 

I promised to try to visit her on my return to 
Lyons, and as she accompanied me to the door I 
requested a photograph. Mechanically, she took 
off her apron and stood in the passage-way, silent 
and sad, with just the shadow of a friendly and 
trusting smile, which I felt would be more marked 
when I should return; and with an au revoir, I left 
this mother of a martyr to think about her unusual 
visitor. 

Later I went back to Lyons, only to find a letter 
that called me immediately to the north of France, 
and I was disappointed not to be able to call on 
Mme. Bechet. Fortunately, however, interested 
friends, priests well known in Lyons, visited Mme. 
Bechet on different occasions and secured a large 
collection of original letters. 

II 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

Not long after my visit, Mme. Bechet gave up her 
two rooms and retired to a Home in charge of some 
sisters in Lyons. A report reached us soon after 
that this good soul had already taken its flight to 
heaven, but later we learned that Mme. Bechet was 
still living, looking eagerly for the day when God 
should bring about the reunion for which she had 
waited so patiently. 




X2 



IN THE VENDEE 
HENRY DORIE 




I 

THE DRIVE TO ST. HILAIRE 

] HAT Henry Doric was a martyr I knew. 
I had read a short sketch of his life 
during an ocean voyage to France, and 
shortly after my arrival at the Paris 
Seminary I had stumbled on his class photograph 
while looking over some mission souvenirs in the 
room of Father Grosjean, the kind and genial proc- 
urator. His young face was there, in a group of 
ten departing students, four of whom, including 
himself, were martyred in Korea less than two 
years later. Among the number was his bosom 
companion, Just de Bretenieres. 

When I next visited the Missions JEtrangeres, in 
the summer of 1906, I was assigned to the room 
which Henry Doric had occupied as a student, and 
the following day, at table, I made inquiries about 
the martyr's birthplace. No one seemed able to 
recall it, for martyrs are quite common in this 
house, and we finally referred for information to 
Father Delpech. The face of the venerable priest 
brightened as he replied without hesitation, " Doric 

IS 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

came from the Vendee, from the parish of St. Hilaire 
de Talmont." 

I knew the general direction of the Vendee and 
there was no necessity at the moment for further 
information. So I pictured the young martyr's 
home somewhere along the west central coast of 
France, not a great distance from the diocese of 
Poitiers, with which I was already familiar through 
visits paid to the Cure of Assais, brother of Theo- 
phane Venard. 

A day or two later, on the occasion of a visit to 
Meudon, the summer house of the Missions Etran- 
geres, I learned that there were no fewer than five 
young aspirants there from La Vendee, and among 
these we were delighted to find one who hailed from 
the parish of St. Hilaire de Talmont. This young 
man, Arthur Perroy, who has since departed for 
Eastern Asia, was then looking forward to his fare- 
well visit home, and after giving me explicit direc- 
tions, with a letter to his pastor, begged me to 
call on his family. In the meantime he would write 
to M. le Cure, who, he assured me, would be 
enchanted to meet an American priest; and under 
these conditions I decided to include in my itinerary 
a pilgrimage to the home of Henry Doric. 

In less than a week I was leaving the Abbe 
Venard at Assais, bound northwards. I changed 
trains after a short run and bought a ticket at 
the junction for Sables d'Olonne, a seashore resort 

i6 





1. Henry Dorie 

2. A Landmark 

3. Town of St. Hilaire 





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1 



IN THE VENDEE 

on the Vendee coast, frequented principally by 
French families from Paris and other inland cities. 
I confess that the name was utterly strange to me, 
but I had long since realized that my travel- 
knowledge was incomplete. In the meantime I 
settled down in a compartment which I shared with 
a mother and her children, all bound for the sands 
of Olonne. One of the little ones insisted on calling 
.me " Papa," but aside from this occasional em- 
barrassment I managed to enjoy the ride. 

As I alighted from the train, however, an un- 
looked-for spectacle presented itself, which gave 
me the impression that a circus troupe was about to 
take its departure. Mingling freely with the people 
in waiting at the station were several women in 
picturesque, not to say theatrical, costume. The 
faces of many were old, even wrinkled, and all were 
sunburned, but their dress, or rather the curtailment 
of it, was unusual indeed. The heads were coiffed, 
the arms enveloped in balloon sleeves, and the skirts 
such as a child of twelve might wear; while the 
wooden shoes, high-heeled, and seemingly covered 
with patent leather, were used with a grace and 
precision that would have done credit to a dancing 
master. I soon learned that these were not the 
participants in a local side-show, but some of the 
natives who through successive generations had 
preserved the traditional dress of their ancestors. 

The afternoon was rapidly going and my time 

17 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

was limited. St. Hilaire was some distance from 
Sables d'Olonne, I had learned, and could be reached 
by an electric train which makes three trips a day. 
Unfortunately the last train had gone. I was 
anxious, after the heat of the day, to breathe fresh 
air from the ocean and rest for a while looking 
out across the Atlantic, but the Cure of St. 
Hilaire was fourteen kilometers away — nearly nine 
miles — and to keep my schedule I must see him 
that night. A cab driver, mounted on his shabby 
coach, had been hovering over me like a vulture 
and actually flew in my direction when I beckoned. 

I told him of my quandary and he became 
wonderfully sympathetic. Of course I could wait 
over and take the morning train for St. Hilaire. 
This was not the cabby's view, and in presenting 
it I did not conceal my anxiety to make the Cure's 
house if possible that night. My decision would 
depend upon his charge. The cocker saw the glitter 
of gold, and realizing the danger of its disappearing, 
he made a reasonable bargain. We started along 
the beach drive, giving the vacationists a slight 
diversion on the way, and soon passed over the 
meadows toward the heart of the Vendee. 

It was six o'clock. The Cure would dine at seven. 
He was not expecting me and there was no inn at 
the village, I had been told. Telephone and tele- 
graph communication were out of the question. I 
felt a trifle uneasy as I reflected on the uncer- 

i8 



IN THE VENDEE 

tainties, but I had experienced such fine hospitality 
among the priests of France and had heard the Cure 
of St. Hilaire praised so highly by several whom 
I had met, that I soon laid aside my fears and 
made up my mind to enjoy this ride in the cool 
of the evening. 

The road to Talmont, of which St. Hilaire is 
a little suburb, was, like most French roads, ex- 
cellent. The horse, after an exhibition of unusual 
speed along the esplanade, had settled down to a 
steady jog that seemed more in harmony with his 
appearance. We took our course to the southwest 
and climbed over a succession of small hills with 
the ocean in view for some time. Little children, 
bonneted like tiny grandmothers, played by the 
roadside and great windmills moved lazily with the 
shifting breezes. Hedges confined the low-lying 
fields dotted by innumerable small stacks of hay. 
From time to time as we rolled off the kilometers, 
that were plainly cut on little stones, we passed 
a wayside shrine and I wondered how long these 
landmarks of faith would be tolerated. 

The homes which I noticed were comfortable, all 
of plastered brick, and several, evidently new, 
adorned with bright tiled roofs. The older dwell- 
ings were covered with vines and apparently 
surrounded by paths brilliant with flowers. Don- 
keys were very much in evidence, bred, I learned, 
in this section for the pleasure of the summer 

19 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

boarders at Sables d'Olonne. They serve the na- 
tives, too, carrying peasants to the market and 
making great sport for the children of the Vendee. 
Our road for a long distance was lined with high 
banks of grass-grown earth broken occasionally with 
gateways made of twisted branches. 

We were at kilostone number 7 when Mr. Cocker 
began to renew his interest in my welfare. He 
knew many people at St. Hilaire, he said, but no 
one by the name of Doric. He had never heard 
that any boy around there had been martyred in 
Korea. It is safe to say that he had never heard 
of Korea and I have no doubt that he still believes 
it somewhere in France. Oh, these martyrs! how 
little do their fellow-men, near or far, know of 
their sacrifices for God and for souls. It matters 
little, at least to those soldiers of Christ whose 
crimson-jeweled crowns were not gained with the 
plaudits of the world, but it is to be regretted that 
the saintly lives and heroic deaths of our contempo- 
raries pass unnoticed and unknown by many to 
whom they would be an edification and a strength. 

We had climbed to a point from which a long 
double row of pine trees ran for a distance of nearly 
five hundred feet. This was evidently an entrance 
to some estate and, as the driver informed me that 
a well-known chateau lay at the end of the avenue, 
I recalled the fact that Henry Doric was a protege 
of a certain nobleman of Talmont who had at first 

20 



IN THE VENDEE 

strenuously opposed his idea of going to the foreign 
missions. 

We were still four kilometers from St. Hi- 
laire, but as we reached the brow of the hill I 
could see in the distance the church spire of the 
little village. " Voild!" said the expectant one 
in the box above, as he pointed his whip 
straight before him — '^ le clocher de St. Hilaire, 
— un joli clocher y n^est-ce-pas? '^ I agreed with 
him. I always do when a Frenchman says 
^^ N'est'Ce-pas? '' about some indifferent subject and 
I am tired; but on this occasion, I was quite of 
Mr. Cocker's opinion. 

We rose to another hill. The sun was preparing 
for a dying burst of light; the green of the hedges 
seemed suddenly to become more brilliant, and the 
new-mown fields looked whiter. Then the great 
ball in the heavens sank, not to its death, but to its 
rest and le coucher du soleil was accomplished. 
The horse with shuffling steps plodded down a 
fairly steep grade where the air was so damp and 
uncomfortably chilled that I began to wonder if the 
plates had all been cleared away at the Cure's house 
and if his housekeeper was a crank. From my 
experience at Assais^ and elsewhere, I knew that 
curiosity about an American priest would stim- 
ulate the bonne in a small French village to such 
an extent that she could even forget she was work- 

* The birthplace of Theophane Venard. 

21 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

ing; and I felt that this curiosity would last long 
enough for present needs. On the other hand, 
I recalled one instance when the lady of the house 
became so curious, under similar circumstances, 
that she quite forgot to work. 

The toilers were returning from the fields. 
Our carriage passed close to them and I was 
tempted to inquire if any were related to my little 
martyr-friend, but time was a consideration and it 
might take those worthy peasants some moments 
to recover from the shock of such a question. 

Our road at length took a turn and we drove 
into the picturesque town of Talmont, with its 
river at our feet, its castle ruins on the banks 
above, and a dignified church commanding all. 
Most of the people were resting on the porches after 
the heat of the day, the men bare-headed, the 
women in whitened coiffes, and they nodded a re- 
spectful salute. 

It took our steed but a few moments to pass 
the limits of this parish, and another turn to the 
left led us into a well-paved street arched with 
trees and broken only by a bridge of stone, under 
which a little stream ran swiftly, almost in the 
shadow of the pretty jieche of St. Hilaire. In a 
moment we had passed the church and I found 
myself in a small settlement of neat houses, some- 
what crowded together, all opening into a narrow 
street that followed the line of the Cure's garden- 

22 



IN THE VENDEE 

wall. At the gate I left the carriage but did not 
dismiss my driver, as the terrible fear had come 
to me that the good man of the house might be 
away. I yanked at the bell-wire and prepared for 
the worst — but I did not have to return with 
Mr. Cocker. 

A young priest opened the gate rather suddenly 
and somewhat upset my ideas of French clerical 
propriety by appearing in citizen's clothing or a 
tucked-up cassock — I could not discern which — 
leading a bicycle. He was about to go on a sick- 
call but he assured me that the Cure was at home 
and pointed to an open door. I had hardly taken 
a step when my venerable host appeared, smiling 
his recognition and extending a cordial welcome. 

He had been looking for the passing stranger 
and he knew that I was on my way from Assais 
and must be tired after so long a journey. Dinner 
was over, but not for me, and if he had been cer- 
tain that I was coming all would have waited. 
Now, if I would be so good as not to mind the 
delay, the meal would soon be prepared. It was 
not hard to be good enough under such conditions, 
so I acquiesced graciously and walked out into the 
deepening twilight with the good priest, up and 
down through his extensive gardens, until we were 
summoned to a very cozy dinner provided for the 
late comer — who enjoyed it quite as much as 
Madame the Cook enjoyed the spectacle of an 
American being fed. 

23, 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

My bedroom at St. Hilaire was a large, clean, 
well-aired apartment that looked out to fields 
beyond, and over the old church, which serves as 
an apse to the present structure. I never had ex- 
perienced such a stillness, so far as I can recall. 
The insect creation evidently followed the custom 
of the villagers to retire at nine o'clock — in separate 
apartments, I hoped, and so it proved. I slept un- 
disturbed, using only one of the two beds with which 
the room was provided, and so soundly that I did 
not wake until the housekeeper next morning gave 
my door a vigorous knock, which I could hardly 
pretend later not to have heard. 

It was still early but the Cure had gone into the 
church and the Mass bell was ringing. When I 
reached the sacristy, I was instructed to prepare 
for Mass at one of the two altars in the old church. 
At the other altar a requiem service was being 
chanted. These altars were at either side of the 
church, in the centre of which stood a line of huge 
columns. There was no high altar. Henry Doric 
knew and loved this place of worship, where, like 
the sabot-shod boy who served me, he, too, had 
often assisted at the Holy Sacrifice. The requiem 
was not disturbing although the choir consisted of 
one man, the sexton, as at Assais, who also repre- 
sented the mourners. This individual sang, without 
accompaniment or score, quite correctly and toler- 
ably well. 

24 




n 

THE DORIE HOME 

HE good Cure had agreed to serve me 
as guide to the home of Henry Dorie. 
He decided that we should make an 
early start for the Dorie home, leaving 
soon after breakfast, and while the sexton was 
hitching the horse he proposed that we should go 
across the street and visit the family of the aspirant 
whom I had met at Meudon. 

It was a pleasant experience. We were evidently 
expected and the family had thoughtfully gathered 
so that we should not lose time on their account. 
The father was a follower of St. Joseph's trade; the 
sisters, dressmakers; two brothers worked in the 
fields; and these, with the mother, a splendid type, 
and her absent son, now consecrated to God, made 
up the Christian home. 

It is needless to say that these excellent people 
were delighted to receive direct news of their boy. 
They spoke of his approaching vacation, that fare- 
well visit among them — now past — and wondered 
to what mission he would be assigned. Henry 
Dorie's name was mentioned and Monsieur le Cure 

25 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

assured his little group of parishioners that in these 
days the chances for martyrdom were very slim. 
One of the girls shook her head with an anxious 
expression and instanced some recent massacres in 
the Far East. They all appeared perfectly re- 
signed, however, and their cheerful spirit was quite 
delightful. When a week later I met Arthur 
Perroy in Paris I felt that my journey to the Vendee 
was worthwhile if only for the pleasure which in 
turn it afforded him and his dear ones at home. 

The Cure's horse was now ready, a white one, 
whose hair remained on my coat for a week. I 
closed the camera, after taking a group picture in 
the back yard^ shook hands all around, and mounted 
an affair on wheels which had been drawn up along- 
side the doorstep. Mounted is hardly the proper 
word to express the idea, as the vehicle seemed to 
be almost on a level with the pavement. Yet, for 
all I knew, it might once have been a public cab 
in Paris — many years ago, of course. The springs 
had settled down since then to their long sleep, the 
canopy had disappeared, and the sun had left no 
sign of varnish or vestige of color. 

The horse was positively fat, well-fed, as a priest's 
horse is usually, and, as I soon discovered, of a 
retiring disposition. '^ Allons, allons — let us go! " 
chirped the good Cure, and the faithful beast turned 
his head toward us but did not stir. " Allons! '' 
again he cried, jerking the reins. This time the 

26 



IN THE VENDEE 

animal responded and dropped into a respectable 
jog, which he kept up for several paces. Chirps, 
jerks, starts and halts in constant succession will 
tell the story of this journey. 

Soon after leaving the village we turned towards 
the sea. The land on all sides was low, with here 
and there, in the distance, a house nestling in a 
clump of trees. Once the Cure called my attention 
to an old monastery, and a little further on to a 
castle. No buildings adjoined the road until we 
came to a small group of dwellings in one of which, 
my host told me, the martyr's married sister was 
living. We did not stop, however, as it had 
suddenly dawned upon the Cure that it was market- 
day and we must hasten so as to reach the Dorie 
homestead before it was deserted. 

I could now discern some hillocks, snow-white, 
and I asked w^hat they were. The Cure smiled, 
delighted at the prospect of explaining the phenom- 
ena. '^ Vous allez voir,^ he said, " vous allez 
voir! Allans, allons! '' and the horse made a fresh 
start for the hundredth time. Yes, I was going to 
see, and the good priest soon explained that Henry 
Dorie's relatives, like most of the dwellers in the 
hamlet which we were approaching, were salt 
makers, and that these hillocks were great heaps 
of the mineral reclaimed from the ocean. '^ Voila! '' 
he exclaimed, pointing with his whip to the left, 
" the salt heaps of our friend Dorie. These are his 

27 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

principal means of support, although he has also 
a small farm." 

We could see no one at work, but we soon came 
to the clustered dwellings which go by the name 
of La Guitiere. An old well stood guard over the 
double file of weather-beaten houses that rose from 
the marsh-lands, bare and shelterless as the hulk 
of some great wreck on a weed-strewn beach. The 
settlement was made up of about ten small 
houses, occupied, I understood, for the most part 
by relatives of the Doric family. A driveway 
enabled us to enter from the main road, and the 
Cure at once released his horse from the royally 
curved shafts in which the animal had been con- 
fined and tied him in the shade of a hay-loft. In 
the meantime our arrival had created something of 
a stir, and already a few of the matrons had come 
out to greet their pastor, wondering, doubtless, 
what might be the purpose of his call on such a 
day, when the hamlet was deserted for the busy 
scenes at Talmont. 

We had evidently arrived too late to catch the 
market-goers, and the women shook their heads 
when the Cure asked if there was anybody at the 
Doric homestead. The old gentleman had long 
since learned, however, not to place too much reli- 
ance on second-hand information; so, beckoning to 
me, we passed through a tiny garden opposite and 
knocked at the door of one of the several low 

28 




^^ There he was, the man with the hoe^ {Page 2g) 




'^She might have stepped from some old canvas. ^^ 

{Page 32) 



IN THE VENDEE 

dwellings that lined the narrow street. There was 
no sound within, and after a brief delay I followed 
my guide along the rough passageway leading to 
the salt-beds. As we came in view of the widening 
marshes, the old Cure gave a grunt of satisfaction — 
" Le voila, le neveu du martyr! '' 

There he was, the man with the hoe, in sabots 
and straw hat, gathering in heaps of white mineral, 
reclaimed by evaporation from the waters of the 
ocean. The nephew of Henry Dorie had, fortu- 
nately for us, stayed at home, while his father, the 
martyr's brother, had gone to Talmont, and we had 
missed him on our way. This nephew, whose 
Christian name I do not now recall, was a young 
man of pleasing address and intelligent appreciation, 
— not uncommon qualities among the laboring 
classes of France. He showed us the simple process 
of salt-making, and, leaving the hot sun to continue 
its work unaided, returned with us to his humble 
home, which he invited us to enter. 

Only two weeks before I had been entertained 
at the Chateau de Bretenieres, where Just de 
Bretenieres, the bosom friend and martyr compan- 
ion of Henry Dorie, had been reared. The con- 
trast now was striking in the extreme. We entered 
directly into a good-sized room that seemed to 
answer almost every household purpose. There 
was nothing of interest to attract the ordinary 
visitor, and it seemed like intrusion to look too 

29 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

inquisitively at the evidences of homely thrift that 
presented themselves. 

I asked if I might see the martyr's room and 
we mounted a flight of worn sandstone steps that 
led immediately from this living-room to a kind of 
loft where grain was stored along with household 
articles. In one corner, separated by a thin parti- 
tion of wood, was the little bed-room, with a few 
shelves of ischool books, a statue of the Blessed 
Virgin, a first Communion certificate, and some 
holy pictures spread here and there high on the low- 
ceilinged walls. 

I took down several books, and looking through ^ 

the pages, discovered two slips of paper, both 
precious souvenirs, which the nephew, at the Cure's 
request, generously allowed me to keep. One of 
these was the last section of a letter, written, evi- 
dently, while the future martyr was on his way 
to Korea. It reads as follows: 

I do not forget you. I think of you often. Even 
this morning I seemed to see you asking M. FAbbe if 
any news had come; and then I prayed God to give you 
strength and courage. 

Courage, dearest parents, love God always and much. 
Offer to Him your sufferings and your labor, and He will 
recompense you one day. 

In the meantime, as you see, I write to you as often 
as possible, and I promise to keep it up. I would like 
even to write to each of you individually, but that is 
quite impossible, especially until we get to Singapore. 

30 



IN THE VENDEE 

When I arrive at Shanghai I can more easily send you 
fuller details and make a review of my voyage. 

My beard is beginning to grow and I am as ugly as a 
monkey. 

Adieu, the heat is stifling me, and I will go on deck 
for some air. We expect to see the African coast in a 
few hours. Adieu. 

Your son who loves you, 

H. DoRiE, M. Ap. to Korea. 

Taking down, again at random, a second book, 
there dropped from it a small piece of paper about 
four inches in length. I picked it up and found, 
inside, a promoter's list of members in the Lyons 
Society for the Propagation of the Faith. The 
martyr's name was first on the list, followed by 
eight others. Against each name was checked, in 
centimes, amounts paid in February, March and 
June (the year not given). The " band '' was made 
up possibly of students at the College of Sables 
d'Olonne, but of this we are not certain. 

With these two precious souvenirs of the martyr 
in my possession, for which special thanks are due 
to the Cure of St. Hilaire, we went from the humble 
dwelling out into the little street of the hamlet, 
where we found an informal committee of the stay- 
at-homes waiting to greet their pastor. I was 
introduced simply as an American priest, whose 
name could be recalled no more than it could be 
pronounced; and as my host left me to superintend 

31 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

the harnessing of his horse, I clicked the camera, 
to the delight of all present, who crowded around 
the instrument with the usual expression — '' tres 
curieux! ^' 

They were a kindly, simple people, whom I re- 
call with much pleasure. Even now I can see, as 
the horse ambled off amid the au revoirs, one poor 
woman at the well that guards the entrance to the 
hamlet. Bronzed by the sun and wrinkled with 
age, she might have stepped from some old canvas. 
She little knew the impression made on our film 
as she turned to look at the departing visitors. 

We arrived at the presbytery in good time for 
lunch, which had been prepared so that I could 
catch the train for Sables d'Olonne. It was with 
regret that I left my kind host and his vicaire that 
day; and as a few moments later I settled down in 
the " express " bound for the famous Vendee water- 
ing place, I could not help feeling that my stay 
had been all too short. 

The " express " was made up of one car, divided 
into several compartments, including one for cattle. 
The moving power might have been electricity, but 
my recollection is only of several stops and slow 
going. At a station on the public highway there 
was considerable delay in landing one of our travel- 
ing companions in the forward section, — a newly 
bought pig, who evidently felt uncomfortable at 
the prospects of a strange sty. After some mo- 

32 



IN THE VENDEE 

ments of coaxing and pulling, a burly fellow took 
the animal by the ear, accomplished the desired 
result, and the car moved on with whistle^ shrieks, 
and squeals, each striving for the ascendancy. 

In Sables d'Olonne I found a courteous welcome 
at the College where Henry Doric had studied, and 
where today his name is held in benediction as an 
alumnus who won the martyr's crown. He v/as 
not considered a brilliant student, I learned, and 
had to spend more time than the ordinary boy 
in the preparation of his lessons. But his dispo- 
sition, modest yet gay, secured for him the abiding 
affection of all his companions. It was during 
these years that his vocation to the foreign missions 
developed strongly, and, among other letters writ- 
ten by him as a student, is one to an intimate 
friend containing these words — "/ wish to give 
myself wholly to Our Lord: to work, to suffer all 
my life, and to die for Him and for the spread of 
His Kingdom on earth '^ 

I found at the College only the professors, as 
it was the vacation season. They were young men, 
diocesan priests, keen and intelligent, especially 
curious to find out the workings of the Catholic 
Church in the United States. They had all read 
the Abbe Klein's work on the "Land of the 
Strenuous Life." The book, in spite of the French 
suspicion that it is somewhat highly colored, has 
probably done more than any other to open the 

33 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

eyes of French priests to the actual condition of 
the Catholic religion in this country. It was now 
discussed by several of those present, and many 
questions were asked. 

When train time had come I left the peaceful 
cloister where we had been walking in the cool 
evening air, and, the faculty serving as escort, we 
joined the summer people in their promenade along 
the seashore drive, and made towards the railway 
station. We were none too soon and the Superior 
very nearly occasioned my arrest by encouraging 
me to mount the train for Paris without a ticket; 
but " all's well that ends well " and before mid- 
night, by several Providential and accidental cir- 
cumstances, I managed to have the compartment 
quite alone until we arrived in Paris, which I 
reached safely with pleasant recollections of the 
home of Henry Dorie. 




34 



AT DIJON 

JUST DE BRETENlfiRES 




I 

THE CHATEAU OF BRETENIERES 

I HE great lines of railway from Paris 
to Lausanne and Marseilles run through 
Dijon. We took a morning train out 
of the capital, determined on our way 
to Lyons to stop over and meet, if possible, the 
brother of Just de Bretenieres. 

Dijon was preparing for the national holiday, 
when we arrived on the eve of June the fourteenth, 
at about four o'clock. The cab-driver whom we 
selected was well acquainted with the Abbe de 
Bretenieres — who in the city did not know 
him, he asked. So we settled ourselves on the 
hot leather cushions under a white carriage-um- 
brella, that threatened to collapse as we jumped 
over the pavements along the main thoroughfare, 
past interesting groups of statuary, into the great 
square. Then leaving the tramway line our driver 
turned into a narrow street and, with a jerk, draw- 
ing up his lank animal at an ornamental doorway 
flanked by solid walls of masonry, signaled us to 

37 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

alight. We did so willingly enough, and pulled a 
worn bell-handle that hung at the side of the gate. 
We were before the entrance of Saint Francis de 
Sales College, of which Father Christian de Bre- 
tenieres was the founder and principal. 

The concierge, typical of his class, appeared. 
Was M. de Bretenieres at home? He squared off a 
pace or two and looked at us suspiciously. What 
we probably were in the mind of this worthy porter 
was soon discovered. He asked us if we were try- 
ing to sell books and did not seem satisfied when 
we made reply in the negative. Hesitating a mo- 
ment, he directed us to a small waiting-room in 
the courtyard and disappeared. 

Several minutes passed and the street gate 
again creaked on its great hinges. A young 
priest who had evidently just returned from 
his walk appeared. We saluted, stated briefly 
the object of ^-our visit, explained our limited 
time, and finally succeeded in moving him to 
make an inquiry. He left us suddenly and the 
concierge returned, looked us over again and said 
— not a word. I was getting desperate, when the 
priest came to inform us that M. de Bretenieres 
was away from the city but would probably be 
visible the next day. 

This was discouraging, as we expected by that 
time to be in Lyons. The priest suggested that we 
come early in the morning and, deciding to wait 

38 





1. Just de Bretenieres 

2. His Mother 

3. The Chateau 




AT DIJON 

over, we asked permission to take photographs. 
We found the ^^ open sesame " to a good heart as 
soon as v/e disclosed our nationality. Did we 

know Father A of the Boston archdiocese, 

who taught in the Catholic University of Wash- 
ington? We were surprised at the question, but 
soon learned that our interviewer, a professor under 
M. de Bretenieres, had translated into French a 
volume on Buddhism, the work of this American 
priest about whom he had asked. All barriers fell 
to the ground and we made a triumphal entry into 
the inner court of the de Bretenieres Castle. 

The College which flourished there was con- 
ducted on a high intellectual level and was widely 
known. The tuition was considerable for France, 
but the material advantages and the excellent 
courses of instruction drew to the school regularly 
more than three hundred young men, who were 
taught by a finely trained body of professors, most 
of whom were members of the diocesan clergy, each 
in his line a specialist. 

Our guide conducted us at once to the chapel, — 
devotional and artistic in every detail. Above in 
the gallery over the entrance and enclosed in a 
space once occupied as the elder brother'is bed- 
chamber, a room had been fitted up to contain 
various souvenirs of the martyr. Here Just passed 
studious and restful hours during eight years of 
his life. His bed was kept in one corner of this, 

39 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

a screened and hallowed enclosure. Near it 
hung his seminary cloak and a much-faded hat. 
An oil-painting of the martyr, the work of his de- 
voted cousin, Mme. de Bretenieres, was on the wall, 
above a treasure-case filled with relics and precious 
memorials. What seemed to be the armor of a 
Korean soldier stood grimly on guard at one 
corner. 

In the meantime we learned that the family 
originally possessed two other homes, — one, now 
a sub-prefecture, where Just was born, at Chalon- 
sur-Saone, about an hour's railway journey towards 
Lyons; the other, still owned by Father Christian, 
at Bretenieres, a small village five to six miles out- 
side of Dijon and then the residence of Mme. de 
Bretenieres, who, we were assured, would be pleased 
to receive a visit from anyone interested in her 
beloved young martyr. We made up our mind 
,to go at once to Bretenieres before sunset, so as 
to secure photographs; and in a short quarter of 
an hour we were well out of the city and on our 
way. 

The country was delightful and the road- 
bed even and hard. Our horse, stimulated by an- 
other that followed us closely, made a special 
effort to show his mettle. The vehicle behind us 
was a noisy market-wagon, drawn by a heavy 
animal and carrying three sun-browned peasants 
who had delivered a load of fruit at the jam factory 

40 



AT DIJON 

in Dijon, and were returning with empty cans, full 
stomachs, and more or less replenished purses. 
We passed at good speed through several hamlets 
and after a considerable stretch of plain came to 
the village of Bretenieres. 

We recognized it by the graceful, chateau, which 
a turn of the road brought into view, set in from 
the street, well shaded, with lawns extending on 
three sides as far as the eye could see. With a 
wave of the hand to our " pursuers," who had 
helped us more than they knew, we drove past the 
lodge to the entrance of the chateau. The blinds 
were closed and the place looked deserted, but a 
ring at the side-door brought the house-dog, fol- 
lowed by a servant, who to our dismay informed 
us that Mme. de Bretenieres had gone into the 
village and would not be home until late. This 
was not pleasant and we began an explanation of 
our mission. It was quite useless. 

We suggested waiting, but the searching, curious 
^eyes betrayed the hope that we should go, — and 
.soon. We wondered if the sun, now rapidly sinking, 
would help us to impress at least the outside of the 
house on our memories, and borrowing a chair from 
the reluctant maid, who deputed a man-servant to 
fetch the article, we posed the apparatus, attempted 
a few views, and mechanically folded the instru- 
ment, debating whether we should delay longer or 
return to 'the city. The decision was announced 

41 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

by a series of barks from the dog, who suddenly 
bounded down the path as Mme. de Bretenieres 
appeared, accompanied by her brother and a 
nephew. She had been disappointed in her visit, 
and, happily for us, had at once returned. 

The mistress of the castle at Bretenieres was 
the widow of an exemplary and much-loved 
gentleman — a first cousin of Just and Christian 
— who died a few years before, and whose loss she 
had doubly felt since they were childless. She was 
a woman of middle age, cultured in mind and heart, 
and devoted, as we afterwards learned, to the poof 
of her village, whom she visited regularly. She 
received us graciously and begged us to enter. Tea 
was served in the great hall, and I tried to imagine 
that I could see Just taking his own place in these 
pleasant surroundings of his youth. 

The conversation naturally drifted to America 
and the condition of the Church in France, 
until we turned the good lady's thoughts to 
the object of our errand. She brought us 
some photographs, and at our request pointed 
out the room occupied by Just. It was spacious, 
well-lighted and richly furnished. There the future 
mart)^' slept; there, too, he studied, under the 
constant direction of tutors, during the period 
preparatory to his college-course. Christian had 
occupied the adjoining chamber, and I recalled 
a query which the Abbe d'Hulst has noted. Both 

42 



AT DIJON 

of these boys were much attached to their home 
at Bretenieres, and when Christian was old enough 
to realize that it would fall eventually into the 
hands of his elder brother the little fellow asked 
Just if he himself would have to leave it then. The 
answer came immediately: ^' Don't worry, Chris- 
tian, it will never belong to me, for I am going to 
be a priest. It will be yours." And so it was Chris- 
tian's, although he, too, had become a priest. But 
he was a steward and nol^ the master of his Master's 
goods. 

We learned that the mother of these two sons 
exercised a constant vigilance over their lives, aim- 
ing especially to keep them from habits of idle- 
ness. To this end she held before them the high- 
est ideals and always the supernatural motive. At 
times, forgetting their tender years, she used ex- 
pressions which she felt on reflection were quite 
incomprehensible to her boys. These words were 
not always lost, however, for Mme. de Bretenieres 
recalled one occasion when the mother overheard 
Christian asking what she meant by " perfection." 
Just answered that " perfection is like a high 
^mountain, very high: it costs much time and labor 
to reach the top, but one need not get discouraged 
for we can always get there if we wish." 

One of the several tutors brought to Bretenieres 
for the boys' instruction was a young German priest 
to whom they both became much attached. Just 

43 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

wanted to know from his mother if all priests were 
saints, and when he was delicately reminded 
that they were not all in that particular class he 
insisted that Father W. was, because he could 
see an aureole around his head when he taught 
catechism. Just referred to Christian in proof 
of this, but the latter could not give similar evi- 
dence. From this tutor the boys acquired, in ad- 
dition to the regular course of studies, an ex- 
cellent knowledge of German and English and a 
special taste for geology. 

In vacation time traveling was the chief diver- 
sion of the family, including the father and often 
the mother. Their excursions were oftenest on 
foot, a bag on their backs, a geologist's hammer 
in their hands. For nine years they spent their 
summers in this way, climbing the mountains and 
traversing nearly all the valleys of Switzerland, 
Savoy and the Vosges; and they did not lack ad- 
ventures which served to enliven the fireside con- 
versations on their return. On one occasion they 
were arrested as suspected perpetrators of a daring 
and sacrilegious robbery, and led through a town 
by five policemen, surrounded by a great crowd, — 
the evidence being hammers, chisels, and other 
instruments found on their persons. 

Minerals, fossils, insects and birds were the ob- 
ject of their unceasing care during the whole year. 
To increase their knowledge, they visited natural 

44 



AT DIJON 

history museums and corresponded with scien- 
tific men; until a celebrated geologist, who had 
them received into the Geological Society of France, 
said that he could teach them nothing more con- 
cerning the nature of rocks. 

Just's tutor^ seeing him apparently so absorbed 
in his rocks and birds, even after his vocation 
had become clearly manifest and his parting from 
home near at hand, said to him one day at Bre- 
tenieres: "What if you have to leave all this?" 
" Oh, that will not be hard," Just replied. " Don't 
you see I am only occupied with it on account of 
my father and brother? It interests them now, 
and will take up their minds when I am gone." 

The vacation journeys had another charm for 
Just, since in them he found opportunities to disci- 
pline himself for the rough life of a missioner. His 
vocation was always on his mind, and to brave heat 
and cold, fatigue and thirst, was his schooling for 
the apostolate. He never lightened his clothing 
under the burning sun, nor added to it on enter- 
ing a cold valley. He always lifted the heaviest 
rocks and gayly carried the weightiest sacks. 

A proper appreciation of the fine arts, especially 
of music and painting, was given to the boys here 
at Bretenieres, and when Just was eighteen years 
of age he succeeded in passing a brilliant exami- 
nation at Lyons, on which occasion he secured the 
Bachelor's degree. In the same year the two young 

45 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

men together translated into French a work of two 
volumes on Christian Art; by Dr. Neumayer, whom 
they had met in Germany and who expressed his 
surprise at their proficiency in his language, as 
at their knowledge of philology, history, and phil- 
osophy. 

It was while living at Bretenieres that Just made 
known to his parents his desire to become a priest. 
They were quite reconciled to this idea but urged 
him to wait for two years on account of his in- 
fluence over Christian, and he readily followed their 
wishes. The Dominicans attracted him, but when 
he learned that he could not be assured of a foreign 
mission if he joined this order he consulted the 
Superior-General of the Sulpicians, who advised 
him to enter the Seminary at Issy, near Paris, 
where he could begin his ecclesiastical studies and 
later come to a decision about his future field 
of labor. 

These were interesting reminiscences which the 
interior of the chateau vividly recalled, but equally 
welcome was the invitation extended by Mme. 
Bretenieres to visit the garden where Just had mani- 
fested so strongly, when a very little fellow, his 
call to the Far East. We passed out of the hall 
doorway across the lawn to a path which led several 
hundred feet away to a simple cross erected in 
memory of this incident, to which I shall refer later. 
Christian, who was a witness, told all to us the 

46 



AT DIJON 

next day with his own lips. We knelt as pilgrims 
for a moment's prayer, then sauntered on to the 
little chapel where Mme. Bretenieres, her servants, 
and the people round about gather regularly for 
the services of the Church. In the crypt of this 
chapel lie the bodies of the Bretenieres and in the 
church-yard under the shadow of the fagade sleep 
the villagers of other days. 

Returning along the path^ we plucked a few leaves 
from a vine that clung around the base of the 
memorial cross and I thought of this child of wealth 
struck to death for his love of Christ. The age 
of martyrs has certainly not passed. In some un- 
known spot in far-away Korea, lay the mangled re- 
mains of Just Bretenieres and his companions^* and 
today, out of that soil^ crimsoned by their blood, 
the tree of faith is bearing precious fruit. " The 
bodies of the saints are buried in peace and their 
names will live forever. The souls of the saints 
rejoice in heaven, — they who have followed in 
the footsteps of Christ, because for love of Him 
they have poured out their blood." (Breviary.) 

In the cool of the early evening we drove back 
to Dijon, silent and happy. Just had taken this 
road when he left for the Missions Etrangeres of 
Paris. The Abbe d'Hulst, who knew him at that 
period, thus describes the young aspirant: " His 

* The body of Just de Bretenieres was later removed to Dijon, 
France, at the request of his brother. 

47 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

tall figure plainly indicated health and strength; 
his countenance, usually pale, gave evidence of an 
energetic temperament; his lofty brow, framed by 
wavy hair, was full of nobility, but the greatest 
charm of his features was his eyes of infinite 
sweetness, wherein shone the light of courage. The 
frankness and modesty of his glance inspired con- 
fidence at once." 

I recalled, too, on this occasion, the late beloved 
Father Barbier, S.M., of Boston, who remembered 
the day of Just's departure and had spoken to 
me of the event. The Barbier home was near 
Dijon. The driver of the carriage which had 
taken the future martyr to the railway station 
halted his horses and announced the news to Father 
Barbier, then a young student. The cocker was 
quite indignant that this youth with such brilliant 
prospects should deliberately fling them aside and 
go off to China to be killed, and as he drove away 
he remarked with considerable vehemence that Just 
de Bretenieres was a fool. 

And so he was, but it is fortunate for the rest 
of us, I mused, that there are occasionally to be 
found in the world such fools; for the foolishness 
of the world is the wisdom of Christ. Would that 
there were more fools for His sake! 

We crossed the little bridge, made a final turn 
of the road, and passed through the city to our 
hotel. The streets were gayly decorated and 

48 



AT DIJON 

brilliantly lighted. A band was playing in the 
square, and several biographs were amusing the 
people with pictures thrown high above their heads, 
for the world of Dijon had begun in earnest the 
celebration of the festival. Tired, and fortunate in 
finding quiet rooms, we were soon asleep and our 
slumber was unbroken, as the " night before " in 
France is not made sleepless by intermittent ex- 
plosions of cannon crackers under one's window. 



49 




II 

REMINISCENCES OF THE MARTYR'S 
BROTHER 

IHORTLY after nine o'clock on the 
morning of July the fourteenth, we 
found ourselves at Dijon in the court- 
yard of the College of Saint Francis 
de Sales — and without delay were shown to the 
room of Father de Bretenieres. 

Christian de Bretenieres was at the time sixty- 
eight years of age. Above six feet in height, he 
still carried himself erect, and with his bronzed face, 
gray hair and trimmed beard, had all the appearance 
of a retired army officer. Father de Bretenieres was 
a little hard of hearing and talked — fortunately for 
us — slowly, with perfect articulation and graceful 
speech, making us feel at once that we should profit 
much by our brief visit; for brief it must be, since 
trains do not wait for ordinary men and our Lyons 
express was due at noon. 

It did not take long for Father de Bretenieres to 

place us. He spoke most kindly of Father A , 

a former Sulpician professor at the Seminary in 
Boston and later in Dijon; of the good Carmelites 

so 




FATHER CHRISTIAN DE BRETENIERES 



AT DIJON 

in the former city, with whom he had been in cor- 
respondence; and finally of our visit to Breten- 
ieres the day before, which last-named subject 
led at once to that of his martyred brother. 

At the request of my companion, who was eager 
to hear from the lips of this priest a description of 
the striking incident which in the early youth of 
the two brothers had happened at Bretenieres, our 
host entered enthusiastically into the story. 

Although the circumstances occurred when Chris- 
tian and Just were only four and six years old, 
respectively, our host recalled them perfectly, — 
the place along the garden walk where both had 
been digging at play. Christian's withdrawal for 
the purpose of starting a new hole, the piercing 
cry from Just that brought to his side the younger 
brother and their nurse, who had been knitting a 
few yards away. Just pointing excitedly into the 
new-made opening and asking if they did not see 
the unusual spectacle, his perfect description of the 
Chinese who appeared to him and were beckoning 
him to go to them. 

Christian himself and the nurse were nonplussed, 
he told us; they could see nothing except dirt and 
stones, and the smaller boy returned to his play 
Vv^hile the nurse doubtless wondered if Just could be 
ill. Later in the day she told Mme. de Breten- 
ieres what had happened, but the incident seems 
to have passed almost immediately out of the 

SI 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

mother's mind, as, in fact, out of the memory of 
all concerned. Just himself never referred to it, 
Christian said, until twenty years later, on the eve 
of his departure for Eastern Asia. 

Father de Bretenieres then diverted our thoughts 
to the development of his brother's vocation to the 
foreign missions. Following the decision otf the 
Superior-General of the Sulpicians, Just had entered 
the Seminary at Issy where he pursued the usual 
ecclesiastical courses, also serving the community 
as organist. I recalled a notice of him in the Sul- 
pician register, which reads: 

De Bretenieres, Just, from Nov. 19, 1859, 
to July 15, 1861; was for two years the edifica- 
tion of the Seminary by his piety, and our delight 
by an incomparable gentleness and agreeable 
nature. His talents, perfected by an excellent 
education received entirely at home, prepared him 
for great things. 

In May, 1861, he reached a positive decision to 
enter the Foreign Mission Seminary, and on the 
occasion of their next visit to Paris he announced 
this intention to his parents, who had rented apart- 
ments in the city so as to be near their son. M. de 
Bretenieres was quite overcome as he realized 
fully not only the separation but the danger to 
Just's life. The mother prayed as her boy spoke 
his wish and found the grace to thank God for 

52 



AT DIJON 

the honor bestowed upon her. Notwithstanding 
her heroic resolve, however, Father Christian 
said, she could not conceal her feelings. Just 
was received at the Seminary in the Rue du Bac — 
and as it was vacation time he was allowed to re- 
turn to Bretenieres with his parents for a few 
weeks. 

During these days at home, he suffered con- 
siderably, as the family afterwards learned, from 
witnessing the silent grief of his parents. Chris- 
tian himself also felt severely the pain of the 
anticipated separation and frankly expressed his 
feelings to the elder brother, who became keenly 
conscious of the misery which he was occasioning to 
those whom he loved so dearly. 

Before leaving for Paris, Just accompanied the 
family to their chateau in Dijon and after spend- 
ing the night where we were sitting, the family 
made a short pilgrimage to the Fontaine de Dijon, 
outside the city. St. Bernard, we knew, was born 
there and there bade adieu to family, position^ estate 
and brilliant prospects for the love of Christ. The 
coincidence impressed us — but this fact did not 
mean so much to Father Christian as did the words 
uttered by the priest at the Gospel of the Mass that 
day: " Everyone that hath left house, or brethren, 
or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, 
or lands for my name's sake, shall receive a hundred- 
fold and shall possess life everlasting." 

S3 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

Father Christian made no allusion to his brother's 
departure for Paris at this time but seemed anxious 
that we should realize as fully as possible some of 
the beautiful traits which showed themselves in the 
martyr during his stay in the Rue du Bac. Just 
found the spirit of this School of Martyrs quite 
different from that of the Sulpician Seminary in 
Jssy. It was more rugged; there was greater free- 
dom and more fraternal familiarity. As we had 
come from a week's stay at this Seminary, where 
we too had remarked the atmosphere, we could 
appreciate the words which the young aspirant 
wrote home at this time to Christian and his 
parents. 

, Christian followed his brother's thought with in- 
tense interest. He himself had been inclined to 
take up law as a profession and was already pur- 
suing studies to this end. At Paris he attended the 
.Sorbonne — and evidently during this period the 
jDrothers saw much of each other. During Just's 
second year at the Rue du Bac Christian began to 
feel the call to the altar. He had been impressed 
,by the oft-repeated words of his elder brother — 
^^ / am like a belly I have only one tone — all is 
vanity except to love God.'^ That year as vacation 
,days were coming to a close, the two brothers went 
put to Issy, where Christian remained to make a 
retreat before taking up his studies for the 
priesthood. 

54 



AT DIJON 

As Christian was speaking to us, I could not help 
thinking that the father of these two young men — 
the only offspring — must naturally have been 
greatly disappointed in the thought that neither of 
them would perpetuate his name and the traditions 
of his family, but Christian said nothing of this. 
^t was only afterwards that I noticed in a letter 
written by Just to his father these words: 

I was under the impression, at first, that I had en- 
tered a Society whose members were happy and gay, 
but who took life easy, just as it comes, and where there 
was not much interior work; but I was greatly mis- 
taken. I soon understood that a house from which men 
go forth to war against Satan, thoroughly armed for con- 
quest, must needs be the object of God^s most abundant 
grace. Such is indeed the case. If you come on this 
winter, I will tell you many things that will astonish 
you perhaps, and which prove that the race of the saints 
is far from being extinct. 

Let me assure you that the prospect of separation 
does not in the least cast a gloom over their spirits. On 
the contrary, there is perhaps no community where frank 
gaiety reigns so openly. The good God recompenses 
already the first sacrifices, and the desire for greater 
ones, by a perfect tranquillity of soul. Our Lord be- 
stows on these future apostles a charity by which it is 
impossible not to be struck at first sight; directors and 
aspirants have but one heart and one soul, the same 
thoughts, the same desires. There is here such a high 
degree of virtue that I, a poor beginner, can scarcely 
understand it. 

There will soon come a day that has no end, when 

S5 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

you will rejoice at not having made gallant cavaliers out 
of your two sons, but, please God, good fathers of 
families. For such Christian and I shall be, only of a 
kind that will not be troubled with housekeeping. 

Just was ordained on May 21, 1864, and Chris- 
tian received tonsure the same day. The departure 
for Korea took place July 15, and on the eve of 
that memorable day the two brothers were together 
in the Seminary garden at Paris, Christian having 
returned from Rome for the occcasion. 

They had talked over many things in those 
precious hours, — the future of both, their beloved 
parents, their family affairs, their own youth and 
childhood. Then Just after some moments' silence 
suddenly asked Christian if he recalled the inci- 
dent in the garden at Bretenieres. It came back 
instantly to his mind. Christian told us, though 
neither had ever alluded to the strange happening 
,before, and whether it was a real vision or an effect 
of the imagination, it was evidently used by Divine 
Providence, Father Bretenieres believes, to direct 
the thoughts of his martyred brother to the apos- 
tolate of Eastern Asia. 

Our time was passing and Father de Bretenieres 
led us again to the chamber of Just. Opening a 
cabinet of precious souvenirs, he gave us each a 
little medal of St. Francis Xavier which had been 
blessed by Just on the day of his departure, showed 
us many souvenirs, letters, and books, — then 

56 



AT DIJON 

opening a drawer, he took out the notes which he 
himself had made on his brother's life, and real- 
izing that I had come with some purpose of making 
that life better known in the United States, he 
kindly offered me the precious manuscripts. We 
then arranged that I should return again to Dijon 
if possible; if not, that he should forward them to 
me at Paris. With a feeling that we should meet 
again, I left Father de Bretenieres and we took our 
,train for Lyons. 



57 




Ill 

A SECOND VISIT TO FATHER CHRISTIAN 

E WAS hurr3dng back to Paris from Lyons 
and decided to break my journey by a 
second visit to the brother of Just de 
Bretenieres. This would compel me to 
wait at Dijon until midnight but it would give me 
further light on the character and home surround- 
ings of the young martyr of Korea; so I gathered 
my few belongings as we approached the city, 
deposed my bag and raincoat at the station, boarded 
a tramcar, which I left as we came in view of St. 
Michael's Church, and found myself again in a few 
moments pulling the bell in the Riie Vannerie. 

Father de Bretenieres was at home and soon 
we were chatting, comfortably seated in the at- 
.tractive study which the Superior of the College of 
St. Francis de Sales had made of his family living- 
room. The apartment opened directly on the court- 
yard, the great glass-paneled doors, then pushed 
.back to the inner walls, forming one of the win- 
jdows. Interesting souvenirs of the family were 
all about me. A large portrait of Just, miniatures 
.of his parents and relatives, dainty vases and rich 

S8 



AT DIJON 

bronzes, attracted the eye and made one wish for 
leisure to examine them. On the windows were 
hung transparencies illustrating various portions 
of Eastern Europe and Northern Africa, for Chris- 
tian de Bretenieres had never lost the love for 
travel, fostered in earlier days by his parents. He 
had a most valuable collection of views prepared 
from his own photographs, which he used in oc- 
casional lectures on art and archaeology. 

The notes on his brother's life promised on the 
occasion of my earlier visit had been forwarded 
already to Paris — eight record books filled with 
fine handwriting — the " family treasure," as 
Father Christian called it. But there was need of 
photographs if Just were to be made known to 
Americans, and, among others, it was thought by 
the visitor that the surviving brother of a real mar- 
tyr would be a particularly welcome subject. 
Unfortunately, Father Christian, though quite 
familiar with cameras, had never placed any value 
on negatives that bore his own likeness and if he 
had ever had one he certainly had not kept it. 
So out in the courtyard this worthy gentleman soon 
found himself with his importunate friend from the 
West lands, and there he had to submit to an opera- 
tion the timeliness of which he had good reason to 
question. For the day was well advanced and snap- 
shots decline in effect with the sun. A suggestion 
of the original would be better than nothing, how- 

59 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

ever, even if the result should be uncomplimentary 
to the victim. 

As I folded the instrument the signal for dinner 
was sounded and the faculty of the College as- 
sembled* Three tables formed a hollow square in 
the spacious dining hall. Father de Bretenieres 
took his place as Superior at the centre, overlooking 
the entire community. The meal was simple, 
plainly served and somewhat hurried. When grace 
had been said at its close, my host beckoned 
jne to follow, and led the way through a small door- 
way into a private corridor which conducted us to 
a drawing-room of the old chateau. The furnish- 
ings were particularly attractive and I would have 
lingered, but we passed again into the study where, 
over coffee and cigars (somewhat rare articles in 
the presbyteries of France, by the way), Father 
Christian talked of recent happenings at Dijon, 
.where the Church had been especially tried, of his 
own College and of other institutions which he had 
helped to found and which were now threatened 
.with ruin. 

He described in detail an incident of the pre- 
ceding Sunday when, in a small parish on the out- 
skirts of the city, the newly appointed Bishop had 
been publicly insulted and church services inter- 
fered with by the anti-clericals. Dijon, Father 
Christian admitted^ was in a pretty bad condition 
morally. The children, deprived of Christian 

60 




^^The apartment opened directly on 
the courtyard y {Page 58) 



AT DIJON 

teaching, had already begun to show the effects of 
God-less instruction and constant malicious insinua- 
tion against the Church. The sisters who had been 
turned out of the local hospital were replaced by 
lay nurses under the supervision of non-Catholic 
matrons who were known bigots. The streets 
were not safe at night and Father de Bretenieres 
himself would never walk alone or unarmed after 
nine o'clock. Insults from men and women were 
frequent and savage highway assaults not un- 
common. 

In the course of our conversation we turned fre- 
quently to the subject of his brother's life. One 
characteristic of the young martyr which his brother 
felt had never been properly appreciated was an 
intense love of poverty which absorbed his whole 
nature. Just was particularly attracted and in- 
fluenced by the lives of St. Teresa and St. John 
of the Cross, and before he left the Paris Seminary 
he had advanced further in spiritual perfection than 
even his closest companions realized. 

When I recalled this testimony, a day or two later 
in Paris at the hospitable table of the Missions 
^trangeres, Father Delpech, the venerable Superior, 
who remembered Just de Bretenieres with much 
affection, and who himself had confessed the Faith, 
said: "Ah! Bretenieres carried the spirit of 
poverty to its very limit! " I remembered seeing 
at Dijon a faded hat with a patched cassock which 

6i 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

Just insisted on wearing till he left France; and 
Father Delpech reminded me of an incident 
.connected with Just's departure, when the young 
missioner, before boarding the train for Marseilles, 
gave away his last copper, saying to his companion, 
" For more than twenty years I have longed to be 
poor and I am so at last." 

His humility was no less admirable than his love 
of poverty, and this characteristic of his brother's 
life has left a deep impression on Father Christian. 
Just saw much of the peasants at Bretenieres and 
was always anxious to conceal the slightest ap- 
pearance of superiority. He made himself one with 
them so that when he spoke to them of God 
they would believe in his sincerity. The same 
trait was noticed later when occasionally he 
would go out from the mission house in Paris 
to work among the quarry-men. On those oc- 
casions, convinced that the laborers, though 
poor and ignorant, were children of God, he 
would set before himself the task of gaining 
a soul. Casting aside his hat and book, rolling 
up his sleeves and shortening his cassock, 
he would seize a pick-axe, a hand-spike or a crow- 
bar to help some nearly exhausted toiler. 

At Meudon, the summer house of the Paris Sem- 
inary, there is a retired spot on the grounds, known 
today as "Just's hermitage." The future martyr 
spent much of his free time there and more than 

62 



AT DIJON 

once he was found before dawn on his knees^ so ab- 
sorbed in prayer that the rabbits, coming out of 
the woods, frolicked about him in perfect freedom. 
Today a small cross cut in the bark of the tree 
under whose branches he was wont to kneel marks 
the place, which is used by the students as a 
shrine. 

His desire for martyrdom was also manifested to 
Father Christian. Just had long cherished this 
desire but often said that he was " not the stuff 
out of which martyrs are made." After his ordina- 
tion it seems that diffidence on this point dis- 
appeared and quietly he looked forward with a holy 
joy to his own opportunity to perform this ^' heroic 
act of love/' as he called martyrdom. When he was 
assigned to the Korean mission — the most danger- 
ous field at that time — he could not conceal his 
happiness. 

On the occasion of my earlier visit to Dijon I 
had noticed among the souvenirs of Just a rose, 
waxed and encased in glass; and remembering that 
there was in Abbe d'Hulst's Life an allusion to this 
flower, I asked for the facts. Father Christian 
told me that when Just was a boy, his mother 
sent him one day to take to the Sisters of Charity 
in Dijon a rose-bush for the convent garden. The 
little bush took root, produced leaves in regular 
abundance, but never flowered. Years later, when 
Just had already arrived in Korea, the nuns found 

63 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

on the bush one morning a solitary rose, and later 
it was remarked that this red flower had appeared, 
so far as could be learned, simultaneously with 
the martyr's sacrifice of blood. 

As Father Christian finished relating this inci- 
dent we heard a footstep on the gravel of the court- 
yard and a moment later a young priest appeared 
in the doorway, dressed in the habit of the As- 
sumptionists. He was a trifle embarrassed, as 
Father Christian did not recognize him and he had 
come to ask shelter for the night. The Superior 
at once assented and was about to direct him to 
the procurator's room, when, looking more closely 
at his visitor, he recognized in him a former pupil 
of the College, gave him a warm welcome, and bade 
him be seated. The young priest had been driven 
into exile several months before and had found 
hospitality beyond the Pyrenees, in Spain; but he 
had had no opportunity to work and upon further 
application to his Superior- General had just been 
assigned to a field of labor in Chile, South America. 
He was now passing once more through France 
and stayed over at Dijon to say good-by to his 
family, whose members resided in the neighborhood. 
On his way from the railway station that night he 
had been insulted several times, but he made light 
of this trial. 

When the guest had left us to take his rest, Father 
de Bretenieres, noticing that the hour was growing 

64 



AT DIJON 

late, made a search for some mementos which it 
occurred to him I should like to have, — photo- 
graphs of the martyr, of his parents, of Christian 
himself when he was a student at the Sorbonne in 
Paris, of the two brothers on the eve of the de- 
parture — all precious souvenirs of a most profit- 
able visit. Then, when he had selected a stout 
stick and put on his broad-brimmed hat, we passed 
.together out into the courtyard, through several 
corridors, until by a side exit we reached the public 
street and started off briskly for the station. 

He looked like a soldier in the garb of a priest, 
this man, who, I had already learned, was a power 
in the Church and a worthy brother of the martyr 
whose valiant spirit he shared. We reached the 
station in good time. It was big, gloomy, and quite 
deserted. Through the waiting-room we passed 
out upon the platform and trackage area, and only 
when he had placed me in a compartment and pro- 
vided me with a pillow for the night would my 
worthy host take his departure. I was glad to have 
had the privilege of meeting this priest and to have 
impressed him with my interest in his brother. 
Truly a prophet is without honor among his own: 
in Dijon, Father Christian had told me, ^^ Just is 
forgotten/^ 

The car-doors began to bang. An engine bumped 
ungraciously against our waiting coach and ran it 
down a siding. Darkening the compartment, I 

6S 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS ' 

placed the pillow at one end of the long seat and 
stretched my coat on its length. Happy thought! 
For a peasant in blouse and great felt hat was just 
mounting. He was somewhat heavy with liquor 
and in a mood to fight for his rights with the con- 
ductor who, after one vigorous remonstrance, 
allowed him to enter the corridor. The undesirable 
passenger came directly to the door of my compart- 
ment, which I had been confidently assured I should 
have to myself. But my own rights were limited 
and I stepped back to make room for this king of 
the soil. With a leer at me he turned his eyes on the 
darkened prostrate form (my hat was now on the 
pillow above the coat), gave a grunt, and muttering, 
found his way to another section. I breathed a sigh 
of relief, feeling a trifle selfish, I must confess, as 
I wondered who had drawn this prize. 

As we steamed slowly away from Dijon I thought 
of Just de Bretenieres taking a similar ride to the 
same point of destination. At last after several 
turnings of the hired pillow and many a shift of my 
coverlet, the kindly rain-coat, I slumbered. Awak- 
ening in Paris at half-past five in the morning, I 
was soon on the way to the Rue de Bac. 



{ 




66 



NEAR BOURG 
BLESSED PIERRE CHANEL 



i 




I 

THE JOURNEY TO CUET 

YONS was hot and it was shortly after 
mid-day when I started from the 
heights near the great basilica of 
Notre Dame de Fourviere for the rail- 
way station below. I was bound for the birth- 
place of Pierre Chanel, martyr of Futuna in 
Oceania, and I was fortunate to find an empty com- 
partment on the train marked ^^ Direction de Bourg.'^ 
The windows were closed so that the place was 
stuffy, as usual. With some impatience, I confess, 
I put them quickly out of sight in their sockets, 
drew the dusty blue curtains and settled down to 
say some Office before the train started. It was 
all mine, this second-class compartment on a fourth- 
class train. Not that I had paid for such privacy 
by purchasing several tickets, but travelers on this 
particular line were few and preferred the third 
class, where they could be distracted by their com- 
panions or be kept awake by the knocking of 
knees. 

69 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

''En voiture, Messieurs, en voiture s'il vous 
plait/' It was the signal to start and the mighty 
ruler of the train was unusually gracious considering 
the fact that he had no first-class passengers to 
conduct. I sighed gratefully, reflecting that the 
heated air would soon be fanned. We waited ten 
minutes longer, however, before the picayune 
whistle blew and the caravan for Bourg was on 
its way. 

The scenery, good, bad or indifferent — whatever 
it might have been — was shut out. Enough light 
streamed through the faded curtains to allow me 
to read, and I might just as well have been in a 
mourner's hack or, to be less irreverent, in a tunnel. 
But we were moving actually and in the direction 
de Bourg, — always in the direction. It was this 
thought that kept my heart beating, and I had 
need of such a stimulant for we stopped in less 
than six minutes. It was a real stop, too, so gentle 
and prolonged that the engine was evidently loath 
to disturb its precious burden. I wondered if we 
had broken down and started to inquire into the 
cause. 

The " guard," roused from a cat-nap which he 
had been taking in a rear compartment, came along 
the line calling out some strange name. There was 
nothing in sight except fields of new-mown hay, 
baking in the white glare of the sunlight, and the 
little house of the station-master. We had made 

70 





1. Pierre Chanel 

2. His Birthplace 

3. Town of Cras 




NEAR BOURG 

the first scheduled arret. No passenger left the 
train and none mounted. Why were they waiting? 
My question was answered by the rattling of empty 
milk-cans which were being dumped out in bunches 
of three and four from a car near the engine. 

We started again. The breeze came, hot but 
welcome withal. It proved that we were in motion 
and continued for ten minutes longer, when the 
movement of air gave place to the tin-can rhapsody. 
I learned afterwards that I had taken the worst 
possible train to Bourg. But there is an end to 
every kind of persecution, and at about four o'clock 
we arrived at our destination and I was soon 
bumping along a busy thoroughfare towards the 
adjacent suburb, Brou. There, free from all 
surrounding buildings, except the Seminary to 
which it stands attached, rises one of the most 
graceful churches in France. 

We stopped at the Seminary gate and as the 
Superior, whom I had met in Lyons, had extended 
an invitation to remain over night, I confidently 
discharged my driver and started the usual process 
of breaking and entering. It is not always a simple 
task to break down the suspicion of an inquiring 
though undemonstrative concierge, especially in a 
place like Brou, which is well-away from the tour- 
ist circuit and visited, as a rule, only by art-lovers. 
My host was finally called, however, and a genuine 
welcome assured. The students had left for their 

71 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

summer holidays and only a few of the professors 
remained, so that the cloisters and house were 
unusually quiet. We passed through several clois- 
ters, each representing a different period of archi- 
tecture and all mellowed with age, along tortuous 
corridors and stairways, up to a room which had 
been prepared for me, but which I could never 
find again unaided. 

In this diocesan Seminary, Pierre Chanel, the 
first martyr of Oceania and the first Marist Father 
to receive Beatification, was trained for the priest- 
hood. I had become especially interested in this 
martyr through members of his Society in Boston, 
who hold Blessed Chanel in deep veneration and 
who have decorated their Church, Notre Dame des 
VictoireSy on Isabella Street, with several souvenirs 
of their illustrious confrere. 

It was not long before I found my way to the 
room formerly occupied by the martyr, which had 
been converted into a memorial chapel and contained 
several of his relics. It was decided that I should 
offer the Holy Sacrifice there on the following 
morning, and as there was still some time left before 
the evening meal we passed quietly through the 
house and proceeded to examine the church in de- 
tail while the day was still bright. It is not my 
purpose to describe this beautiful monument. I 
could not if I would, do justice to the wealth of 
detail and the beauty of outline. The decoration 

72 



NEAR BOURG 

is all in carved stone, the choir, wnich occupies a 
considerable portion of the nave, being especially 
fine. 

My host and I were quite alone for dinner. 
After our visit to the church he had left me, at 
my request, alone, to go through the cloisters at 
leisure; and in that interval an incident occurred 
which interested the good priest not a little. From 
the cloisters I had passed naturally to the " castle " 
of the concierge, whom I found engaged with two 
duster-clad smooth-faced automobilists. These 
gentlemen were evidently getting the worst of it 
as the aforesaid official, Hke most of his kind, had 
no sympathy for a man struggling with the French 
language (to him so simple), and less for the wealthy 
stranger from afar. They were Americans, I soon 
discovered, and I was not unwilling to converse in 
my native language, especially as my tongue for 
two whole weeks had been tied up in all kinds of 
knots trying to express some passing thoughts, 
and my ears seemed at times during this period to 
have lost all sense of hearing. 

So I approached these sufferers, acted as their 
guide, and gave them what information I possessed. 
They invited me to return in their automobile to 
Lyons but I explained that my road lay in the 
opposite direction and that, in any event, I had 
arranged to stay over night at the Seminary where 
I was to say Mass on the morrow in the room of 

73 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

the young martyr, whose birthplace I was about 
to visit. 

The two Americans looked up with evident sur- 
prise and one of them remarked that it seemed like 
ancient history to speak of martyrs for the faith. 
I told hurriedly the story of Pierre Chanel and 
mentioned several other martyrs whose homes I 
had already visited, also the Missions Etrangeres in 
the heart of Paris, out of whose doors at least a 
hundred young men had passed to massacre or 
martyrdom in Eastern Asia, most of them during the 
nineteenth century, several in our own lifetime. 

They listened with intense interest and when 
they had shaken hands and mounted their auto- 
mobile, one of them said, " We are Americans, 
citizens of the United States like yourself, but what 
a difference there is between your opportunity and 
ours! My friend and I came to visit this beau- 
tiful church, but, here as everywhere in these 
coimtries of Europe, we are only curious strangers. 
You come and find yourself at home. You share 
in the life of these people, who to us are like so 
many closed books. I can understand," he added, 
"how a Catholic^ especially a priest, can find his 
own in any country under the sun. Certainly the 
organization of your Church grows more and more 
wonderful to a man who travels." 

He smiled as I told him that he had struck one 
note of the True Church, its Catholicity, and that 

74 



NEAR BOURG 

I hoped some day he would realize the others. 
We shall probably never meet again. We did not 
even exchange names, satisfied when we learned 
that they were from New York and I from Boston, 
but I am certain that this little experience did these 
men some good. At least, it passed the time for 
me and interested my host. 

The next morning after Mass offered in Pierre 
Chanel's room, on a little altar crowned with his 
statue, one of the priests drove me back to Bourg 
where I took a train for Montrevel, a small station 
on the line that runs from Bourg to Chalon-sur- 
Saone. Several people shared the compartment, 
all natives and apparently familiar with the dis- 
trict, but no one had ever heard of Montrevel, or 
else possibly my accent rendered them stupid. In 
any event, I had to keep a close watch for signs, 
as the guard who passed along the platform was 
as intelligible as a New York car-conductor. 

I had not long to wait. As the train slowed 
down at a group of buildings, I spied the looked- 
for-name, Montrevel, bowed myself and small 
baggage out upon the platform and, as there were 
no empty milk-cans to follow, the train moved 
away silently, leaving me quite alone. The station- 
master, that very important individual in France 
— the chej de gare, no less — appeared to claim my 
ticket, and setting my coat and satchel on some- 
body's battered trunk, I awaited further develop- 

75 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

ments. There were no carriage sharks here ready 
to pounce on an innocent victim but I was within 
sight of several stores and was conscious of being 
watched inquisitively if not with suspicion. I may 
remind the reader that a priest in coat and trousers 
is an uncommon spectacle in these remote French 
towns. I can hardly say whether on this occasion 
I felt like a freak or a discoverer. 

Well, that morning I was due in Cuet, the actual 
birthplace of the martyr whose home I was seek- 
ing. Up to that moment, I had found nobody who 
could tell me its exact location and I had searched 
maps in vain. At Brou, however, my host had 
assured me that once I arrived in Montrevel I 
would find Cuet without much difficulty, and my 
host was right. 

A gray-haired priest was the object of my first at- 
tack. I met him before I left the station platform 
and I shall never forget him though he has since 
gone to his reward. He was unusually small and his 
keen, bright eyes looked me over in sections as I 
gave an account of myself and solicited his services. 
Occasionally he blinked knowingly and a char- 
acteristic clearing of his throat indicated his grow- 
ing interest. So I wished to go to Cuet^ did I? 
Well, I could drive there. It was not very far, 
seven or eight kilometers would cover the distance 
and a carriage would be at the station in a little 
while. 

76 



NEAR BOURG 

I asked for the Cure of Cuet. ''Ah—!'' 
My new-found guide, for such he proved to be, 
drew a long breath, and threw again a search-light 
from under his heavy eyebrows. Then the face 
relaxed, as the brows lifted a full half-inch, and 
five deep wrinkles ran quickly across the width of 
the forehead. 

'^ Ah! Monsieur le Cure de Cuet, — il est Men 
gentil — gentil! '' He nodded his head earnestly as 
he repeated the phrase. Just then I sighted the 
" affair " that was to take me to Cuet. ^^ Tenez/' 
my friend said, as I started to shake hands with 
him, ^^ tenez!" He would go with me, — how far 
I did not know, — so we entered the conveyance 
by its rear door, drew the curtains against the sun 
and resumed our conversation, which up to this 
point had disclosed to me hardly more than a con- 
fidence that I was on the right road to Cuet. 

The little priest faced me, took off his great hat, 
pulled up the sleeves of his cassock and whistled 
that it was hot, to which I agreed. His hair was 
gray, thin but curly, the kind that was once bushy 
and black, but that was — long ago. After several 
incisive questions, which were directly answered, 
my companion evidently concluded that I was not 
a robber, nor a Government spy, nor a stranger un- 
sympathetic to his calling, but a priest from the 
States, off the usual line of travel. Then blinking 
his eyes, he began to ask for several Marist Fathers 

77 



IN THE HOMES OF ^MARTYRS 

who at one time or other had been stationed in 
Boston. As I was personally acquainted with 
some whom he mentioned^ the .thought occurred to 
me that he, too, was a member of the same 
Society; and remarking my suspicions, he soon in- 
formed me, with a wink, that such was the case. 
He was an exile, who had returned to visit his 
good friend, the Cure of Cuet. 

It was a relief to feel that I should not have to 
prove my identity to the Cure. On the other hand, 
my venerable friend, Pere Dolliat, whose card by 
this time was in my pocket, evidently began to 
reflect that he was taking some risk in introducing 
an American to his simple host. So he proceeded 
to sound me on my proposed sojourn and was 
somewhat taken aback when I asked if I could 
find an inn of some kind in the village. There 
was no inn, he assured me; and he felt that such a 
plan would not be approved by M. le Cure, who 
would very likely wish to entertain me; but he dis- 
missed the subject — ^^ TeneZy tenez — we will see/' 



78 




II 

THE CHANEL HOMESTEAD 

IFTER some moments the silence was 
broken by the familiar '' Voila! '^ As 
the old man drew aside the leather 
curtain, I looked out and caught my 
first glimpse of Cuet — with its few straggling 
homes and its venerable church. Old it certainly 
was, this church that once had echoed to the foot- 
steps of Pierre Chanel, martyr. For seven hundred 
years, as I afterwards learned, it had been standing 
guard over the hamlet and the gentle vale below. A 
home of worship in a remote mission could hardly 
be poorer than this church with its rough-laid 
stones, its few simple openings, and the suggestion 
of a tower capped with worn tiles and surmounted 
by a weather-beaten cross. 

In another moment, we were at the gateway of 
the high-walled garden that enclosed the presbytery 
and I found myself shaking hands with the Cure. 
The pastor of Cuet was a comparatively young priest 
with a kindly, intelligent and ascetic face, which, 
though it then naturally expressed surprise at so 
unexpected an appearance, showed no suspicion. 

79 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

Pere DoUiat insisted on clearing himself of all 
responsibility, and, like a rapid-firing gun, he 
poured out a volley of words that detailed the cir- 
cumstances of our meeting and the object of the 
attack made on Cuet by this pretre sauvage 
Americain. There was no need of any apology, 
the Cure quietly assured me. This was the home- 
nest of Pierre Chanel, a shrine to which pilgrims 
came regularly from the surrounding country. 
And the American was so much the more welcome 
since he had traveled across the ocean and many 
miles in France to show his respect for the martyr. 
Besides, it was the first time in his life that the 
Cure of Cuet had met a native-born American 
priest and he was certain that none such had ever 
before honored the little hamlet with his presence. 

But I must be tired and hot. So was Pere 
DoUiat, who had been alternately shaking a hand- 
kerchief at his face and mopping his high fore- 
head, during these preliminary explanations and 
assurances. We were ushered into the cool dining- 
room for a light refection, and when this was over, 
the Cure took me to what is called the chambre de 
Monseigneur — the Bishop's room. It was cer- 
tainly a most attractive apartment, good enough for 
any bishop, and consequently quite acceptable to 
the present guest. The outlook was delightful 
and the interior of the apartment all that could be 
desired. 

80 





^^^H^^^^ivSii^^^^ 


1 


-v 


!--<- 


^ ^1 


N( 


i 1- ^ . ^- W-!^''«i 




1 



'A remote mission could hardly he poorer than this.'' {Page jg) 




^The actual home of the martyr — across the fields,'' {Page 84) 



i 



( 



NEAR BOURG 

It had been my intention to stay only a few 
hours at Cuet, visiting the Chanel homestead, where 
I had been told the martyr's nephew was still 
living, and also, if possible, the little village of Cras 
near by, where Pierre had studied as a boy. When 
I communicated these plans to my host, he at once 
insisted that I should remain over night and if 
possible another day, so that he might give me more 
personal attention. He was just then preparing to 
receive on the morrow all the priests of the canton 
who would gather at Cuet for the monthly con- 
ference and retreat; and he was most anxious to 
have his visitor chant the Grande Messe and meet 
his confreres at dinner. In the meantime, the good 
Pere DoUiat would take me, before lunch, to see 
the martyr's relatives and in the afternoon he 
would guide me to Cras. 

I did not need much urging to remain under such 
satisfactory and interesting conditions, so while 
M. le. Cure busied himself with many duties in 
anticipation of the following day, my old friend, he 
of the curly locks, mounted with me into the wait- 
ing vehicle and we set out for the home of Pierre 
Chanel, martyr of Futuna. Along the well-kept 
road the stout horse trotted, my companion keep- 
ing up his own rapid pace with a chattering de- 
scription of the several Chanel family branches and 
their various traits of character, together with wise 
remarks on the condition of the country, religious, 

8i 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

social, and material. It was all interesting, for 
Pere DoUiat was keen and observant. 

We met a shepherd boy on the wayside, and the 
scene recalled the day when little Pierre Chanel 
was seated on a tuft of grass somewhere along 
this same road and received through a passing priest 
his call to the apostolate. The little saboted feet 
of the future martyr had often clacked along the 
hardened paths which we were now skirting. 

Men and women toiling in the open fields shaded 
their eyes with their hands, to look at us across 
the hedges, and all saluted the old priest as they 
recognized him. After a drive of some three- 
quarters of an hour, Pere DoUiat again fell into 
silence. This did not last long, however. The 
eyes were working hard, dancing directly before a 
small opening in the front curtain. ^' Ah, voila! la 
maison de Victor Chanel — regardez! '^ 

This was said in a tone as impressive as that of 
a guide in some ruined castle of Touraine. Across 
well-tilled fields I saw a cluster of three houses 
built on a slight rise of land and separated each 
from the other by a few hundred feet. We had 
still to make a turn in the road and my compan- 
ion, anticipating the immediate prospect of meet- 
ing Victor, renewed his praises of the young man. 

^' Un brave homme '' — a fine fellow — was 
Victor, the grand-nephew of the martyr, and his 
little wife ^' tres gentille, ah, si gentUle! '^ The 

82 



NEAR BOURG 

house .was very neat — ^^ ah, tres pro pre! '^ and the 
young madame was a wonderful manager. ^' Ah! 
vous allez voir, mon Pere, tout de suite — you are 
going to see right off." Victor's chickens^ too were 
celebrated; the whole country had heard about 
them: they were the finest in the canton. "You 
will see how scientifically they are reared, for 
Victor keeps in touch with all the latest poultry 
publications and Madame watches the chickens 
intelligently. Ah, the little Madame is a delicate 
woman, good and pious^ of simple peasant stx)ck, 
but refined as a born lady — you will see, you will 
see! " 

" Tenez! '^ he called to the driver, " go into the 
shade there and rest your horse and yourself as 
well, for we are going to stay here some time." 
This announcement evidently pleased Mr. Cocher, 
who was not strong and who gladly followed the 
old priest's direction. 

As we knocked at Victor's front door, my guide 
cleared his throat of all unnecessary dust so as to 
properly present the stranger. There was no one 
at home! We made a circuit of the house, fol- 
lowed all paths that appeared to lead towards a 
field of grain or a patch of garden-truck, but there 
was no trace of a Chanel. 

So we approached the only neighboring habita- 
tion, where an old woman, bent with age, informed 
us that Victor had gone for the day to visit his 

83 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

brother-in-law on some business. We were natu- 
rally disappointed, yet I felt relieved when I 
learned that the actual home of the martyr was 
across the fields, where another grand-nephew, not 
so bien installe as Victor, lived with his family. 
We turned our steps immediately in that direction, 
and after a short walk entered a barn-yard, lined 
with stacks of hay, on one of which was a little 
shepherd boy about ten years of age with pitch- 
fork in hand, who ceased his labors as he 
sighted us. 

We were about to ask if anyone was in the 
house, when a pair of wooden shoes echoed on the 
stone flooring inside and a matronly woman stood 
at the door. All were at home, delighted to see 
the genial old priest and pleased to meet the 
stranger, who was presented in turn to each mem- 
ber, quite ceremoniously, of course, by his apologist 
and guide. 

Pierre-Marie Louis Charnay, the old man of the 
group, was the direct offspring of the martyr's sister. 
He was quite bent with rheumatism. Theophile 
Charnay, this old man's son, was a typical peasant, 
hard-working and sunbrowned, fully satisfied to live 
in the old homestead under conditions somewhat 
primitive and not too propre. He was married to 
Anne Ponciers, who greeted us and insisted on our 
entering the living-room of her home. This room 
was as deep as the house itself and its flooring rested 

84 



NEAR BOURG 

on the ground. It was lighted by one window, and 
at this season of the year by the opened upper 
portion of its single door, also. 

In a small apartment just off the living-room, 
we were shown the martyr's bed. A few souvenirs 
were on the wall and a portrait of the Blessed also 
adorned it, but beyond this no attempt had been 
made at any decoration. Though pilgrims come 
occasionally to Cuet, some, in fact, being expected 
at the church the next day, I soon realized that 
few visit the homestead of the martyr, whose rela- 
tives live on, quite undisturbed, in the old way. 
The people of Cuet, Father DoUiat assured me, are 
a faithful flock, the men God-fearing and the women 
of high Christian virtues. Seeds of socialism and 
irreligion with consequent discontent had found 
no lodgment there, where the Cure was still the best 
loved leader in the community. 

It was evidently an enjoyable experience for these 
relatives of Pierre Chanel to share in the honor 
which an American priest was anxious to pay to 
their blessed kinsman. I took a few snap-shots of 
the house from outside and tried to include a 
memorial slab above the door-way. Within, I 
managed to get enough light for the little bed-room 
of the martyr. After this, Pere DoUiat lined up 
the Charnay family — the line was a broken one, 
I confess — with the much-littered yard as a back- 
ground. Then he stood off to contemplate his 

8S 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

success and the camera did the rest, with what 
result the reader may judge. We said good-by 
to these simple people, caught a little berger on one 
of our films as we passed through the poultry-yard, 
and returned to arouse our driver, who by this 
time was sound asleep in a shady nook alongside 
of Victor Chanel's barn. 



86 



Ill 




THE MARTYRS RELATIVES AND HIS 
BOYHOOD HOME 

N the meantime, the much-praised Mme. 
Victor Chanel had returned to her 
menage and was waiting to greet us. 
She certainly looked all that the old 
priest said she was. 

Modest to reverence, she stood, with a young 
woman, her cousin, in the shadow of her neat home- 
stead, the summer wind gently blowing her clean 
white apron. Her face was plump, red-browned 
by occasional toil in the sun, that sweet religious 
type found among so many ministering angels, who, 
in the garb of Little Sisters of the Poor or Sisters 
of Charity, may be found in almost every land 
under God's sun, carrying the love of Christ 
wherever they go and making men better for hav- 
ing met them. Victor Chanel happened to win this 
" little sister " before she could be caught in the 
sweet toils of some religious community, and all 
we could say — and this was, of course, to our- 
selves — was that Victor seemed to have been a 

87 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

fortunate young man and deserved to be congratu- 
lated on his good taste. 

The old priest felt very much at home. ^^ Ahf '' 
he sighed, with evident satisfaction, as we entered 
the cool, tidy living-room; and the characteristic 
little grunt which followed was as if he added, " We 
have come to our own!^ As the young housekeeper 
excused herself to step into an adjoining apartment, 
his little eyes blinked and looked into mine for the 
approval which I did not withhold: hlen propre, we 
both agreed. 

Then, lest I should not have comprehended the 
relationship, my old friend rapidly sketched the 
matrimonial tree. Our hostess was Victor's wife. 
Valentine Guyon was her maiden name and she 
came from a good family in the canton. Victor's 
mother was dead, but his father, still living, was 
the actual nephew of the martyr. Voyez-vous? 

I saw, and just at that moment the lady of the 
manor re-appeared with her cousin, who smiled and 
said nothing, but watched curiously as my guide 
proceeded to apologize for my appearance on the 
face of the earth and especially in Cuet and there. 
When Mme. Victor, with a somewhat fearful ex- 
pression, asked if we would be refreshed, the matri- 
monial tree fell and my guide referred to me for 
a decision, expressing at the same time his own 
indifference. I was glad of an excuse to stay. I 
had been in many peasant homes of France, but 

88 



NEAR BOURG 

in none so well-kept as this, which would have 
vied with an exhibited Holland interior. So I ac- 
quiesced and I honestly believe that the old man 
was not thereby disappointed. 

Then came the question — always a perplexing 
one — of what we should have — and as I was 
made again the court of final appeal, I murmured 
that the best was none too good for an American 
savage. My old friend was amused at this thought- 
ful reply, the Madame smiled, her cousin giggled, 
and the '' best " was produced. Just what it was 
I do not know. It might have been a temperance 
beverage. In any event, it was a home-made 
product of which the Chanels were presumably 
proud, and it served one good purpose, — an oc- 
casion to wish one another good health. 

After this came the inevitable snap-shot. ^^ Ah! '' 
This had become the delight of my friend, who had 
already made himself familiar with the apparatus, 
an ordinary folding kodak, so that his superior 
knowledge now enabled him to enjoy the surprise 
of strangers. '^ Tenez — regardez — voild! '' These 
were his pet expressions, registered in turn during 
the operation, and when the click had been heard — 
''Ah, c^est bon — la la — fini! '' and he would 
enjoy the discomfort of the victims, interrupted 
just as they were preparing to compose their faces. 
Then would come a stage whisper — '^ Les Ameri- 
cains! '^ 

89 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

But I had yet to inspect Victor Chanel's chicken 
" factory." The old priest insisted, so Madame 
smiled and said a few words softly to her cousin. 
The latter hurried away to the poultry yard, while 
we followed at leisure. My knowledge of things 
rural is limited, and for all I knew every con- 
siderable farm in New England was as well equipped 
with poultry-raising appliances as that of Victor 
Chanel. It was all new to me, however. 

As we arrived at the doorway leading to this 
" wonderful " establishment, we saw the young 
girl struggling with a plump hen, which she had 
just captured and was placing into a numbered 
box. When the unwilling bird of bondage was 
settled in her cage Mademoiselle took a long section 
of bent metal piping which had been attached to a 
supply of grain, and with a quick and dexterous 
movement introduced the feeder, for such it was, 
well into the hen's throat with one hand while she 
released the grain with the other. When a scien- 
tifically measured quantity had descended. Made- 
moiselle shut off the supply, withdrew the piping, 
and unboxed the hen, who did not seem to appreci- 
ate, as she ran off, that she had been privileged, 
for company's sake, to enjoy an earlier meal than 
usual. 

We finally roused our driver, took our leave after 
making an arrangement to meet Victor on the fol- 
lowing day at the house of his brother-in-law, and 

90 




^'We made a circuit of the house. ''^ {Page 83) 




^'The Charnay family — a broken line.'' {Page 85) 



NEAR BOURG 

drove back to Cuet, while my old friend continued 
his praises of Victor and of Victor's wife, her honey 
and butter and chickens. 

The Cure was waiting for us and lunch was about 
ready. I was welcomed anew, as graciously as 
before, and at the Cure's suggestion we went into 
the church. It was quite as rough within as it 
had appeared on the outside, but the great, uneven 
floor-slabs were scrupulously clean, and the humble 
furnishings were worthy, in their neatness and 
poverty, of Mary's home for Jesus and Joseph 
in Nazareth. A reliquary had been set up in the 
center before the altar where Pierre Chanel, relics 
of whom were enclosed in this shrine, had offered 
the Holy Sacrifice. A large painting hung above 
the chancel-arch and I could depict on the canvas, 
under the bright noonday light, the scene of the 
martyr's glorification. 

Five of us sat down to lunch at the little round 
table in the Cure's pleasant dining-room, a por- 
trait of the martyr looking down upon us, and 
rows oi empty chairs against the wall speaking 
silently of bygone feast-days in the history of the 
old parish, — M. le Cure, Pere DoUiat, the stranger 
from America, the Cure's sister and another maiden 
lady. The last-mentioned looked not unlike an 
exiled nun such as one may meet occasionally now 
when traveling through France. This was, how- 
ever, a devout lay woman, who had come, like 

Qi 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

myself, to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of 
Pierre Chanel, her favorite saint after Our Blessed 
Lady and St. Joseph. She was devoted also to the 
foreign missions and a special object of her solici- 
tude was a certain mission in Japan, whose bishop 
had been born in this part of France. When the 
good soul learned of my own interest in her patron, 
who was no other than Bishop Chatron of Osaka, 
she was overjoyed. 

Towards the middle of the afternoon, Pere DoUiat 
gave the signal for our start to Cras, and leaving M. 
le Cure to his rapidly advancing preparations, we 
were soon on the high-road. Cras I recalled as the 
neighboring village, whose pastor had taken the 
boy, Pierre Chanel, into his own home and there 
fitted him for entrance to the preparatory seminary. 

Our horse covered the distance in about an hour, 
when we drew up before a splendid new church 
that dominated the hillside with its clustered houses 
and commanded a most attractive view of the 
surrounding country. The Cure, Pere Faury, came 
out to greet us, — a kindly man, interested to meet 
a stranger and enthusiastic in his desire to make 
my visit profitable. 

As we sat in the plain dining-room for the in- 
dispensable refreshment, I noticed on the wall the 
inscription, ^' Salle des NoceSy 17 Juillet 1827." 
" What wedding was this? " I asked myself. 
" Some pastor's sister? " Impossible — I dismissed 

92 



NEAR BOURG 

the thought, and almost immediately the Cure 
informed me that this was a souvenir of the banquet 
which followed the first Mass of Pierre Chanel, on 
which occasion the martyr with all the members of 
his family had been invited to dinner by the then 
Cure of Cras. It was a fitting phrase, the " Nuptial 
Room," for Pierre Chanel was indeed wedded to 
the Church which he loved and for which later he 
so cheerfully laid down his life. 

I went upstairs, with our host, to little Pierre's 
room. It looked out upon the garden where the 
boy had spent much of his recreation nurturing 
plants and pretty flowers for Our Lady's shrine. 
The Cure was justly proud of the church, which we 
could see as we stood at the window and which in 
the natural order of events we visited and inspected 
at leisure. With the prospect of meeting this good 
priest at the retreat we started back to Cuet. 

The rays of the setting sun lighted up the moun- 
tains of Beaujolais, while deep shadows began to 
fall on the hills of Jura towards the East. Between 
these two elevated ranges, vineyards and fields of 
grain stretched out in seemingly unending patches, 
which, as they caught the varying lights, were beau- 
tiful at every moment. The peasants were re- 
turning to their homes, women carrying good-sized 
loads of twigs, men trudging along in the vesper 
silence with the implements of their toil swung 
across their shoulders. 

93 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

We were four that night at dinner. The pilgrim 
had returned to her home. It was a cozy meal, 
simple but well served; and the conversation, as is 
usual at a French table, was unflagging. Perhaps 
it is hardly necessary to say that much of the talk- 
ing was done by my venerable guide, to whom all 
questions were finally referred. When the last 
course was over, I was prepared for an invitation 
to sit out in the cool of the garden and enjoy a 
smoke-talk, but I had reckoned without my host. 
To signal the close^ the Cure rang the bell, or rather 
pressed the button (for this worthy pastor is some- 
thing of an electrician), but we did not rise until 
the servant entered and then we all knelt, turned 
towards the crucifix. It was the evening prayer 
and included several beautiful petitions and some 
ejaculations to the martyr of Futuna. 

When this was over, we separated for the night, 
M, le Cure accompanying his guest to the '^ Bishop's 
room," which the thoughtful host had provided with 
tout ce qu'l faut, including two kinds of night-caps. 
With a cordial grasp of the hand, he wished me a 
sound sleep and a '' good night." 



94 




IV 

A DAY WITH THE CURE OF CUET 

Y kind host had invited me to officiate 
at the nine-thirty Mass, which would 
serve the double purpose of a service 
for the pilgrims and the opening of the 
monthly retreat for the priests of the canton. I 
had accepted, although I felt that as an American, 
whose countrymen were quite strange to this little 
hamlet, I should be more of a distraction than a help 
to the gathered clergy. 

Mass was delayed to allow a reasonable time for 
some aged priests to arrive, but most of them were 
in the sacristy by nine-forty-five. They had come, 
some on foot, a few by the railway, and one on his 
bicycle, with cassock flaps ingeniously tucked away 
under the handle-bar. 

As the Holy Sacrifice proceeded, some simple 
hymns were sung by a choir of peasant girls, one 
of the visiting priests occupying the organ bench. 
These hymns alternated with psalms chanted by 
the clergy, and immediately after the closing prayer 
my old friend and guide of the previous day, Pere 
DoUiat, S. M., mounted the pulpit and in a few 

95 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

moments had launched into a flowing torrent of 
spiritual thought. This was evidently noted with 
deep interest by all in the church, but when it 
reached the sacristy it was like the distant, dreamy, 
confused rush of a waterfall. A blessing followed 
the discourse and all the priests adjourned in silence 
to the dining-room of the presbytery, which for 
this day had been turned into a conference hall 
to allow a discussion on various points of theology, 
canon law, and liturgy. 

At noon, lunch was served in a shed used for 
periodical parish festivities, and before this simple 
meal was begun I had an opportunity to meet the 
assembled priests, about eighteen in all. Most of 
them were middle-aged, a few, like the clerical 
bicyclist (who I fear, was an up-setter of local 
traditions) still quite young. As I saw them individ- 
ually and observed them during the day, the impres- 
sion left was that of a body of priests, active and 
full of faith, disturbed and perplexed, as a matter of 
course, over the miserable condition of their coun- 
try, but confident that everything was for the 
best. 

Like nearly all the priests whom I had met in 
various parts of France, they seemed lately to have 
come to some realization of the gratifying condition 
of Catholicity in North America, and they were 
keen in their inquiries concerning statistics and 
methods of church work in the United States. 

96 



NEAR BOURG 

Some were suspicious, of course — ^^ qa va sans 
dire/' as they themselves say, and these were in- 
clined to believe that the Abbe Klein and other 
French clerics loud in their praise of the American 
priesthood had been looking at us through a rose- 
colored magnifying lens or some other deceptive 
medium. They were even under the impression 
that a tremendous wave of heresy was rising in 
the United States. 

A lie dies slowly and the terms Americanism and 
Heckerism, which were forgotten in our country 
almost as soon as they had been uttered, were still 
on the circuit in France after the lapse of several 
years, — thanks to the deliberate falsification of 
certain unprincipled translators. These good men 
at Cuet, however, were only too ready to learn the 
truth and to be assured that American Catholicity 
is quite as vital as its apparent strength would 
indicate. 

The priests of Belley, for this is the diocese to 
which Cuet belongs, were evidently not so credulous 
as those I had found occasionally elsewhere. Per- 
haps the gentle and saintly Bishop of Annecy, who 
was a native of this diocese, had left to his breth- 
ren some of his own sweet simplicity. In any 
event, they were sincere and sympathetic. Among 
others the Bishop of Osaka, Japan, had done much 
to give American Catholics a high standing in this 
department of France. On his return, after thirty 

97 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

years' absence in Japan, Bishop Chatron spent some 
weeks in this, his native province, and was enthusi- 
astic over the Catholic Church of the United 
States. 

Another influence exerted on these priests was 
the fact that most if not all of them had studied at 
the Junior Seminary of Meximieux, which counted 
among its alumni two Amercian prelates, Mon- 
seigneur Eerlawn and Monseigneur Ogormon. The 
visitor, quite unaware at the moment of this cir- 
cumstance, was somehow slow, it must be con- 
fessed, to identify the names with the distinguished 
Archbishop of St. Paul and the learned Bishop of 
Sioux Falls. One of Archbishop Ireland's class- 
mates was, in fact, present at the table, and others 
there had met Bishop O'Gorman during his course. 

The signal to begin was then given. After the 
blessing, we all sat in silence and, as at a seminary 
or retreat collation, the reader started to the ac- 
companiment of soup dishes and spoons. Ordi- 
narily the reading would, I learned afterwards, 
have continued to the end of the meal, but the 
presence of a stranger from afar was considered 
justification for a Deo gratias which let loose 
eighteen silver streams of limpid French. 

Then began a volley of questions, most of them 
bearing on the American Church, all of which were 
answered as perfectly as a limited knowledge of 
the language and other essentials would allow. The 

98 



NEAR BOURG 

field was a wide one but it finally narrowed down 
to the matter and manner of Church support in 
the United States, on which subject these estimable 
gentlemen received a few startling facts which set 
them all talking among themselves and gave me 
a chance to catch a second wind — and some slight 
nourishment. 

The American Church was warmly toasted and 
the strong hope expressed that in France similar 
conditions of freedom might yet be enjoyed by 
Catholics. After a prayer of thanksgiving, all re- 
tired immediately to the Church for Vespers and 
Benediction, which were in turn followed by an- 
other conference and confessions. I was glad to 
have met these priests at Cuet. May the martyr 
son of this canton secure for its clergy special 
graces in their efforts to counteract the trying times 
on which the Church of France has fallen! 

The leave-takings were cordial though brief. 
The bicyclist left a little trail of dust as he sped 
away like an army courier; the long waiting horses 
jogged off with their clerical burdens (not so light 
on the average) ; the pedestrians waited for the dust 
to settle, and^ in turn^ they bade M, le Cure, the 
preacher, and the stranger au revoir; and last but 
not least, the pastor of Cras expressed his hope that 
Pierre Chanel, the Blessed, would one day bring us 
all together again. 

We watched the last cassock as it brushed against 

99 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

the hedge at the presbytery corner, and Pere 
DoUiat, as at the close of a mighty effort, 
wiped his perspiring brow and sighed — ^^ Ah! 
fatigue — whew!'' And the poor little Cure, 
— he certainly looked tired. His thin, pale face 
was slightly flushed with the final excitement, and 
the day's responsibilities had evidently told on his 
strength, but it was over now and he seemed re- 
lieved. There were left on his hands the two with 
whom he had started, but perhaps, I argued, the 
stranger would serve a useful purpose, as target for 
Pere DoUiat's anecdotes and observations on divers 
subjects and thus allow our kindly host needed re- 
laxation. 

I begged the Cure to rest a while, but he would 
not listen. Victor Chanel, the martyr's grand- 
nephew, had arranged to meet us down the road at 
the house of Mme. Victor's brother-in-law and M. le 
Cure would take me there. It would do him much 
good, he assured me; so towards six o'clock we 
started, with a promise to Pere DoUiat that we 
should return for dinner at seven, during which time 
I presumed that the active little man would be talk- 
ing to himself for lack of any other audience. 

Passing around the inn — for it seems that a 
stray pilgrim can be accommodated at Cuet — the 
pastor and his visitor were soon on the highway. 
My companion was saluted respectfully by all 
whom we met, and with infinite gentleness he spoke 

100 




" There were not a great many houses on the road, but we 
entered all.'' {Page loi) 



NEAR BOURG 

his word of greeting to each. There were not a 
great many houses on the road but we entered all, 
as the Cure was organizing a Lourdes pilgrimage 
and was most anxious that Cuet should be well 
represented. A special car and very low railroad 
rates might be provided if they could only secure 
the required number. Would the good mother go? 
" No." The journey would cost only one hundred 
francs ($20.00) and think of the privilege of seeing 
the best-loved shrine in all France. And who 
knew? Perhaps the long-continued asthmatic 
attacks would stop. In any event, the money 
would be well-spent on this pilgrimage of faith. 

But it was for Annette, the little one, that the old 
lady was solicitous. She herself would not have 
many years to suffer, but Annette was young and 
delicate. Perhaps the Holy Virgin would make 
Annette strong, urged the Cure — ^^ N^est-ce-pas, 
Pere? '^ He had turned to me for assurance and 
for the first time the household realized that the 
stranger was a priest. The discovery threatened 
to be a final blow to the Cure's plea but he hastened 
to explain the presence of the " cassockless won- 
der " and in the end I flatter myself that the exhi- 
bition of this curiosity won the day. It is possible 
that these good people, then and there, decided to 
go to Lourdes and pray for my conversion to the 
cassock. At all events, in every instance the Cure 
received the encouragement which he sought. 

lOI 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

About a mile away from the Church we came to 
our rendezvous, the dwelling of Mme. Victor 
Chanel's brother-in-law, another well-appointed 
home with a large farm attached. Madame her- 
self was at the door to greet us and she resembled 
closely the petite marvel to whom Pere DoUiat 
had presented me on the previous day. Two 
bicycles leaned against the doorway, suggesting that 
the young men whom we sought were not far away; 
and in fact we had hardly been seated when their 
owners appeared and I had the pleasure of meet- 
ing Victor, the ideal brave homme, grandnephew 
of the Blessed Pierre Chanel and special friend of 
Pere DoUiat, S. M. 

Let me hasten to assure the reader that Pere 
DoUiat's judgment seemed well founded in his esti- 
mate of Victor Chanel. Tall, well-built and manly, 
with a face kindly and honest, Victor came forward 
to greet us. He had the ease of a gentleman and 
a woman's modesty. One felt that this young man 
of thirty had within him elements of success, and 
though conscious of his ability, he was yet without 
the slightest trace of boastfulness. He had hurried 
in from the fields in peasant attire and at once 
manifested a keen interest, not only in my pur- 
pose respecting his blessed kinsman, but in the fact 
that I was an American. He showed unusual 
familiarity with events and conditions in the United 
States and sighed as we made the inevitable com- 

102 



NEAR BOURG 

parison between the present prospects of the Church 
in both countries. Poor fellow! I thought, per- 
haps he foresees that before the climax is reached, 
he too, like his martyred kinsman, may be called 
upon to suffer and even to die for the Faith, which 
to him, as to many of his countrymen^ is still 
dearer than life itself. 

The day was too far advanced for a successful 
photograph and the faithful camera failed to carry 
away a likeness of Victor Chanel — the more's the 
pity, since Victor's features were supposed to re- 
semble not a little those of the Blessed Pierre. 

At an early hour the next morning I left Cuet. 
My gentle host was warm in his expressions of 
regret, and his invitation to return was as genuine 
as it was acceptable. The older priest stood at one 
side and nodded approvingly as if to remind both 
of us that it was he who had brought about this 
union of hearts. We all walked together towards 
the railway station, along the road which Pierre 
Chanel had traveled, when, without daring to say 
good-bye, he left his parents, and took up his Way 
of the Cross to Futuna, where he was destined after 
a few short months to win the martyr's crown. 

At Montrevel, I left my companions and was glad 
to find a compartment unoccupied, where I could 
reflect at leisure on the gratifying experience which 
had been mine. I can still see the two priests, — 
the gentle Cure bowing slightly and Pere DoUiat, 

103 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

with his curly locks and snapping eyes, drawing 
the attention of all the passengers as he waved his 
big hat with an important gesture, that would have 
started the train even if the conductor had not 
blown his miserable penny whistle. Since then, 
Pere DoUiat has taken his flight to Heaven. May 
sweet Jesus have mercy on the faithful soul of this 
zealous priest who knew and served men well 
because he loved God generously! 

I left the train at Amberieux and changed cars 
for Meximieux, arriving at the petite Seminaire just 
before noon. While waiting in the parlor for the 
Superior, I remarked two large paintings, one of 
Pierre Chanel, who had studied here, the other of 
a much-loved modern saint whose voice had 
echoed occasionally in these halls, the Blessed Cure 
d^Ars. It was good to feel that martyrs and saints 
belong even to our day. 




104 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 
BLESSED THfiOPHANE VENARD 





THE MARTYR'S BROTHER 

T was a chance question that led me 
to the home of Theophane Venard. I 
had made my second pilgrimage to the 
Rue du Bac in Paris, and one day, while 
at the rear of the chapel, I noticed on the left wall 
an engraved slab commemorating this young martyr 
whose decapitated body rests in the crypt below. 

At lunch in the mission-house that day, I asked 
if any of Theophane Venard's relatives still sur- 
vived him. The Superior, Father Delpech, a 
former classmate of the martyr, informed me that 
Eusebius, to whom many of Theophane's letters 
were addressed, was a priest attached to the dio- 
jCese of Poitiers as Cure of Assais. Melanie, he 
added, had died a nun at Amiens, and about Henry 
he knew nothing. 

Eusebius still alive! The little Eusebius so fre- 
quently mentioned in the charming letters of this 
young martyr! Then and there I made up my 
mind to visit Assais and to greet Eusebius Venard, 

107 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

if only for a moment. Maps and time-tables were 
searched that evening, and after some difficulty the 
village was located and the nearest railway station 
found to be Airvault, on the direct line between 
Paris and Bordeaux. 

A message was then sent to warn good Father 
Eusebius of the trouble ahead of him; and the 
next afternoon, when the Paris train, after a ride 
of five hours, stopped at Airvault, I saw on the 
platform a cassocked individual with a genial face, 
rosy and round, crowned with long, gray hair which 
swept back almost to his shoulders from under 
the characteristic broad-brimmed hat of the French 
clergy. It was " little Eusebius,'' and the good 
man had driven eight kilometers in the hot sun 
to meet this stranger. 

Though I was dressed quite properly as an 
American priest, my short coat deceived the good 
Cure, and a white straw hat threw into the shade 
whatever value might have been attached in his 
eyes to my Roman collar. The old gentleman 
glanced away immediately in search of some one 
else, but the question of identity was soon settled 
to his satisfaction. 

After mutual greetings we entered the cool parlor 
of the village inn, which is conducted by a good 
parishioner; and, while refreshments were being 
served, the women of the house enjoyed their first 
view of an American priest, who evidently im- 

io8 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

pressed them as a freak, if not as an Indian. 
Our driver had joined us, — a splendid type of 
the prosperous young French farmer. His horse 
was ready, and mounting the high two-wheeled 
cart to which the animal was attached we set out 
on a five-mile drive. 

Leaving the village, we skirted the banks of a 
picturesque river, and drove under a vista of 
splendid trees, out upon a slightly elevated plain, 
from which we could count no fewer than seven 
churches. As we neared Assais, the toilers in the 
field saluted their Cure and stared hard at the new- 
comer. 

Voila! A turn in the road brought us to the 
church, a dear old building in stone and cement, 
the entrance to which seemed lost in mystery. 
We alighted, passed under the arched gateway of 
a high wall, and in another moment I was stand- 
ing in the home of Eusebius Venard — with Henry, 
the aged brother, still alive to salute the martyr's 
dient, and Madame the housekeeper smiling 
quizzically, as she eyed the stranger from head 
to foot. The sight of a real priest in citizen's 
clothing was evidently quite distracting, not to say 
disedifying, to these good people, and the old lady 
was certainly looking at me with suspicion. 

As by this time I had promised Father Eusebius 
to remain several days, I decided to relieve the 
situation at once, if possible, so I asked for a cas- 

109 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

sock. Fortunately the Cure was supplied with two, 

— one slightly green, the other, which he was wear- 
ing in honor of the occasion, a proper black drap 
d'iti. The black one went to the visitor, who, 
to the delight of the old housekeeper and M. Henry, 
appeared at the table in cassock, cincture and 
" bib," — everything, in fact, except a tonsured 
head, long stockings and buckle shoes. 

The dining room, which was also used as living 
room and study, was spacious if not luxurious, and 
the little centre-table, covered with oilcloth, looked 
hardly large enough for three; but we sat in cosily, 

— Eusebius, Henry and their guest, while Henry's 
dog, Kebis, took his place in an expectant attitude. 
The old lady's face was wreathed in smiles, which 
would certainly have been more pronounced were 
they not restrained by the immaculate bonnet- 
strings tied tightly under her chin and falling in 
two stiff straight lines that swayed as she passed 
from the dining-room to her bellows in the kitchen. 

But alas for her! When the sun shines rain 
may not be far off. In her excitement she had 
forgotten the butter, — an unusual article of diet 
in the Cure's household; she had omitted to set 
a spoon at the stranger's place; then — a positively 
unpardonable offence — she had taken away the oil 
before the Cure finished dressing the salad! The 
sun suddenly disappeared and the clouds gathered, 
but all that I caught in the rumblings of the storm 

no 




^^ Smiling quizzically as she eyed the stranger ^ {Page log) 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

were the words, '^ You've lost your head since this 
American came to the house! " Then there was a 
calm, the Cure smiled, Henry gave some bread to 
Kebis, and the old lady came in with a look of 
triumph and — the coffee. 

The meal was over, a pronounced success in spite 
of the flurry, and, as we passed into the garden, 
the old bonne took another sly look through the 
kitchen window and retired with a new smile as 
she received a profound bow from the visitor. 
Later, while the good Cure was in conference with 
one of his parishioners, she stole out to tell me 
that the pastor was a very good priest but " a little 
fussy" at times. 

As the white cap disappeared I turned into the 
garden path and was soon joined by Father Euse- 
bius. He spoke of America, of his own country, 
and of the Paris Seminary, but every few moments 
his mind would go back to his martyred brother 
and I soon discovered that the great reunion with 
this venerable kinsman was the underlying current 
of all his thoughts. 

The village was quiet as the tomb when my host 
led the way to the guest-chamber. It was a large 
room on the second floor, looking out across the 
courtyard to the church. The flooring, of soft 
wood, was relieved by a solitary little rug along- 
side the high bed, which was draped in its corner 
as if for a king. A table, three chairs, a wash- 
in 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

stand, and a huge cabinet completed the furniture. 
Father Eusebius looked carefully about to see that 
everything was in its place, and for a moment I 
feared for the housekeeper, but the inspection re- 
vealed faultless order. Even the white night- 
cap was resting on the pillow. I may add that its 
folds were not disturbed during my visit. 

Satisfied that everything had been prepared, 
Father Eusebius turned towards the cabinet — a 
family heirloom — and opened it with a key which 
he carried in the pocket of his soutane. At his 
request I approached, and, one by one, he took 
from their places the treasures that were more to 
him than life itself, — souvenirs of his martyred 
brother: the chalice from which Theophane had 
drained his Master's Blood, that he might enrich 
his own and thereby offer a fitting libation; books 
of devotion which had nourished his soul in the 
weariness of exile; some locks of his precious hair; 
a few tiny bones from his dear body; and packages 
of letters written in the martyr's fine, delicate 
hand. 

The door of the cabinet was reverently closed, 
the lock clicked, and the precious key went back 
to its place in the Cure's pocket. Then before 
leaving, Eusebius pointed to three simple frames 
hanging on the walls, telling me that they con- 
tained the original letters written from the cage in 
Tongking, and wishing me a good night's rest he 

112 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

left me to my own reflections. The wooden-soled 
shoes echoed along the bare floors of the corridor 
and down the winding stair-case; a door slammed 
below me; a few moments later I heard the shutter 
close, and all was still. I took my candle and held 
it up to the framed letters. One was written, evi- 
dently with charcoal, in coarse characters on white 
cloth; the others were traced lightly on a reddish 
Chinese paper. 

The last to which I turned was addressed to 
Eusebius himself and the words came home to me 
as if the very letters were streaming with living 
blood: 

My Much-beloved One: 

If I did not write you a few lines for your very own 
self, you would be jealous, and, I admit, with reason. 
You deserve it, too, for your many lengthy and inter- 
esting letters to me. It is very long since I have heard 
from you now; and perhaps you are already a priest? 
and — who knows, perhaps a missioner? However that 
may be, by the time you receive this letter, your brother 
will be no longer in this bad world '' totus in maligno 
positus." He will have left it for a better one, where 
you must strive to join him some day. Your brother's 
head will have fallen and every drop of his blood will 
have been poured out for God. He will have died a 
martyr! That was the dream of my youth! When, as 
a little man, nine years old, I used to take my pet goat 
to browse on the slopes of Bel -Air, I loved to devour the 
life and death of the venerable Charles Cornay, and say 
to myself, '^ And I, too, will go to Tongking. And I, too, 

113 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

will be a martyr! " Oh, admirable thread of Divine 
Providence, which has guided me through the labyrinth 
of this Hfe to the very mission of Tongking and to 
martyrdom! Bless and praise our good and merciful 
God with me, dearest Eusebius, who has taken such care 
of His miserable little servant. " Attraxit me, miserans 
mei! "... And you, dearest little brother, still so 
young in years, you will remain long after me fighting 
among the waves of this troublesome world. Guide 
your ship well. Let prudence take the helm; humility 
the rudder; God be your compass, Mary your anchor of 
hope. And then, in spite of the disgust and bitterness 
which, like a howling sea, will sometimes overwhelm 
you, never be cast down. Have confidence in God, and, 
like Noah's ark, swim always above the waters. . . . 
My lamp gives no more light. Good-by, my Eusebius, 
until the day when you come to rejoin me in Heaven. 

Your most affectionate brother, 

J. T. Venard, Miss. Apost. 



"4 




II 

A DAY AT ASSAIS 

N the Cure's garden at Assais there was a 
little family of turtle-doves. I learned 
of their existence at four o'clock on the 
morning after my arrival. Their coo- 
ing was low and sweet, but not soothing enough 
to let me forget the world again, so I lay 
awake, and, recalling the events of the pre- 
ceding day, tried to realize my surroundings 
as the guest of a martyr's brother. Towards 
six o'clock I heard the firm step of Father 
Eusebius as he came slowly up the winding stairs 
and with rapid movement approached the door of 
my chamber, which received a knock more vigor- 
ous than was necessary. A few minutes later the 
Angelus rang, and in another quarter of an hour I 
found my way into the church, saluting, as I passed, 
my early serenaders in their cage. 

The old stone church was marked with at least 
two centuries of use, but it was comfortable and 
in fairly good repair. At a new marble altar I 
found the pastor saying Mass, assisted by three 
seminarians Who were evidently home for the 

IIS 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

summer holidays. Some women were present, and 
the front pew was occupied by the bonne, who had 
a distraction as I entered and probably a few more 
when, a little later, the American priest, actually 
in vestments, began prayers at the foot of the 
altar. 

In the sacristy after Mass I met the three stu- 
dents. They were brothers, Basil, Valentine, and 
Alfred Huctin, — interesting types of the bright 
young French clerics who, with awakened op- 
portunities, will yet win back to their afflicted 
Church the fair name which today is over- 
shadowed. 

As I was preparing to leave the vestry, an elderly 
woman entered and courtesied. She knelt to re- 
ceive a blessing and, rising, begged a prayer for 
her boys, who were none other than the three 
seminarians, and for her girl, a nun in India. I 
gladly promised to visit the home of this family 
if I could secure the permission of my host, whom 
the young men and their mother evidently held in 
reverential fear; and crossing the courtyard I found 
Eusebius and Henry, with Kebis, the dog, waiting 
for breakfast, not to speak of the bonne, who had 
prepared the petit dejeuner and was considerably 
worried to know if the American would take butter 
so early in the day. 

About ten o'clock, when the breviaries had been 
laid aside and the Cure's flower and vegetable beds 

ii6 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

inspected, Henry left us to get the dinner supplies, 
while Eusebius beckoned me into the living-room 
and placed a chair beside his own at the rough- 
board table, to which he had brought a pile of 
manuscripts from the mysterious recesses of an 
adjoining bedroom. Then, fixing a brown paper 
cigarette into a silver-mounted holder — a souvenir 
of Lourdes and decorated with Our Lady's mono- 
gram, at that — the old gentleman adjusted a pair 
of steel-bowed spectacles, put on a skull cap of 
rusty black oiled paper, which served to protect 
his tonsure from the flies, gave a little character- 
istic grunt, and settled down to what I soon dis- 
covered was his one great recreation — the re- 
hearsal of his brother's beautiful life. 

The manuscript before us was in two piles, neatly 
arranged. In one were the original letters written 
by Theophane Venard from the Colleges of Doue 
and Montmorillon, from the Seminary in PoitierS, 
from the Rue du Bac in Paris, and from Tongking 
up to the time of his captivity. They were all in 
the same fine, delicate hand, and were chronologi- 
cally arranged with copious marginal references 
faithfully made by Father Eusebius, who had pre- 
pared the long process by which his brother was 
declared Venerable — the first step towards canon- 
ization. 

The other manuscript contained the page's of a 
drama on which the Cure was then engaged, and 

117 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

which has since been enacted in the garden of the 
presbytery by the villagers of Assais. Its title 
was: 

CAPTIVITY AND MARTYRDOM OF THE 
VENERABLE THEOPHANE 

It was to this drama that Eusebius was most 
anxious to direct my thoughts, and he began by 
announcing the characters: 

Theophane, the martyr; the grand mandarin, 
viceroy of Hanoi; the mandarins of the criminal 
court and of tributes; the catechists; the uncle 
of the viceroy; Paul, a Christian child; the sol- 
diers, etc. 

The reading of the prologue, which followed, 
was a dignified summary, after which my host out- 
lined the various acts: the trial, ''absolutely his- 
torical and scrupulously reproduced^ as he ob- 
served; the young prisoner of Christ, ''singing in 
his cage J like a bird in the tree ^^ ; the solicitude of 
the soldiers;' the friendship of the mandarin's uncle; 
the vain efforts on the part of Theophane's ad- 
mirers to secure his freedom by compromise; the 
last Communion; the sentence of death; the pro- 
cession to martyrdom, with the triumphant 
apotheosis. 

The brother's voice trembled often, and the tears, 
which he tried to conceal, glistened from time to 
time in the kindly eyes. Certain passages, how- 

ii8 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

ever, evidently stirred his pride, as when to the 
grand mandarin's question — " You do not fear 
death? " Theophane answered: '^ Grand Man- 
darin, I do not fear death. Our European mer- 
chants come here to seek your goods which they 
are pleased to carry to their countrymen who buy 
them for their weight in gold: but I — / disdain 
the treasures of this world; I wish to save souls to 
offer them to my God, and I shall willingly pay for 
them with my life. I am not guilty of any crime 
which deserves death; but if Annam kills me, I will 
gladly shed my blood for Annam. '^ 

We had come to the lonely vigil in the cage, 
when Theophane was made to read aloud some of 
the precious sentences which he wrote on that oc- 
casion to his respected and beloved father: 

I have not had to endure torture like many of my 
friends. A slight sabre-stroke will separate my head 
like the spring flower which the gardener cuts for his 
pleasure. We are all flowers planted on this earth, 
which God gathers in his own time, one a little earlier 
and one a little later. One is as the purpled rose, an- 
other as the virgin lily, another the humble violet. 

I knew those words almost by heart, but the 
beauty was not lost in the repetition, and to the 
brother, as to myself, they seemed as living as if 
they had just been received from the Far East. 
Eusebius paused, but recovering himself, finished: 

119 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

I wish you, my dear father, a long, peaceful and 
saintly old age. Bear sweetly the crosses of this life, 
following the footsteps of Jesus, even to the Calvary of 
a happy death. Father and son will meet again in Para- 
dise. I, poor little moth, I shall go first. Farewell! 

Again, in the scene which led up to the last Com- 
munion, the brother entered deeply into its spirit 
as he slowly read the words which he felt that 
Theophane had uttered on that sublime occasion: 



How slowly the sun rises! When wilt thou come, 
thou Dawn of my Feast Day, Dawn that shall have no 
evening for the martyr? Sun of Annam, haste to shine 
upon the little hills of Hanoi! With thee will return 
the Feast of Mary, my Mother; with thee will come 
again my humiliations and my triumphs. As thou hast 
already brought to me the minister of Divine pardon, 
so wilt thou guide to me in safety the child who is to 
bring the sacred Body of Jesus. Hasten, beautiful Sun! 
I would hail once more thy joyous return! Tomorrow, 
perhaps, my eyelids will be closed in death, and my eyes 
will never again behold thy golden rays in the skies of 
Annam. O Annam, with what joy will I shed my blood 
to render thy plains fruitful and to make the Faith of 
my God flourish here! 

At noon we had interrupted the reading for lunch 
and the customary hour of rest. The day was 
well advanced when we reached the last act, the 
details of the execution as narrated by observers 

I20 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

and the conversion of the viceroy's uncle to the 
martyr's faith. 

The toilers were returning from the fields. I 
could hear their voices and the clacking of their 
sabot's on the pavements beyond the high wall that 
separated the Cure's garden from the street. 
There was considerable movement, too, in the 
kitchen, and the bonne had been making several 
stealthy visits to a china-closet at my left. The 
old priest at last became conscious of her presence, 
and hastened to the apotheosis, which we reached 
as the Angelus was striking. We knelt together, 
and then, slowly gathering his treasures, Eusebius 
carried them back to their hiding place while I 
went out to a shaded walk in the garden for 
Vespers and Compline. 

As I finished I saw the bonne standing at the 
door with a complacent smile, and I knew that 
dinner was ready. 

Henry had been successful; he had caught a 
pigeon in the church tower, he had gathered arti- 
chokes, lettuce, and berries from the garden; and 
these, with good bread from the village and cheese 
from St. Loup (the martyr's birth-place), all pre- 
pared by an " experienced French cook," should 
certainly satisfy an American Indian — and they 
did. 



121 




Ill 

THE HOME AT ST. LOUP 

|T was settled that we should go to St. 
Loup on Thursday to visit the Venard 
home. The three young seminarian 
brothers could be spared from the 
farm that day, — their father's horse likewise, 
and horses, you know, are scarce among the 
country cures in France. The bonne too, good 
servant that she was, could rest after her 
exhausting efforts and new experiences; and 
the manuscripts in the desk of dear Father 
Eusebius would not be hurt if left to gather a few 
specks of dust. 

So not long after the appointed hour I heard the 
rumble of wheels followed by the click of the gate- 
latch, and going down into the garden I found 
Valentine and Alfred ready for the excursion and 
waiting for the lord of the parish to give a signal 
for departure. Father Eusebius, who was finish- 
ing Little Hours on his favorite path, soon appeared 
in the faded cassock — his guest still clung to 
the black one — fresh cincture, pressed bib with 
bead-edges, and a very respectable hat. With a 

122 





1. ThSophane Venard 

2. His Birthplace 

3. St. Loup-on-Thouet 




ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

few parting instructions to the bonne, and some 
more to his brother Henry, '' Allons!'' he almost 
shouted, and in a trice we were clambering into a 
springless, un-named vehicle of questionable age, 
which no one but a bloused peasant or some mis- 
guided visitor would occupy without an accident 
insurance policy — or even with one. 

Basil had the reins, and when all five were 
settled, each more or less comfortably according 
to the number in the seat beside him, our theo- 
logian-driver gave a peculiar chirp followed by a 
low whistle and the animal moved on in stately 
triumph. During several exciting moments, with 
Kebis barking and the Cure getting settled, we 
were kept busy returning the salutations of the 
villagers, who seemed to be under the impression 
that the American was going for good. No such 
luck was in store for them. 

It did not take long to get away from the 
clustered homes of Assais, out into the houseless 
plains of the campagne, over which the good horse, 
with his pointed collar dancing above a well-combed 
mane, jogged along leisurely enough, headed 
towards St. Loup. The distance was not long; an 
automobile would have covered it in fifteen min- 
utes — barring accidents — but modern means of 
locomotion do not trouble this section of France. 
The sun was fairly high when we reached the sum- 
mit of a long graded road and came in full view 

123 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

of St. Loup; nestling in a gentle vale below us, the 
church at its very heart, with graceful spire and 
sun-lit cross pointing proudly to the eternal home 
of the young martyr whose birth-chamber it 
shadowed. 

St. Loup-sur-Thouet! — on the Thouet. The sil- 
ver stream was running through the town below us, 
" sweet and clear — our Thouet," as Theophane 
had written from Paris to Eusebius. A little 
bergeVy driving a few sheep, passed us in the road, 
and as I thought of Theophane I was tempted to 
photograph the boy, but Eusebius was already im- 
patient to hitch the horse and settle down to a 
quiet visit; so the young shepherd lost my sympa- 
thy, which he never suspected, and my gift, which 
perhaps would have hurt more than helped him. 
Every step was interesting now as we passed the 
homes of the townspeople, over the narrow streets 
which time and time again had echoed the martyr's 
footsteps. 

Leaving the imposing castle on our right, we 
turned into a street lined with houses, and just as 
we reached the church, which was set back a few 
rods from the thoroughfare, Father Eusebius gave 
the familiar " Voila! '' following it with the words, 
'^ La maison paternelle/' and turning, I noticed, 
directly opposite the church, a plastered house, 
relieved by timber, with overhanging eaves and 
high-built chimney, one home among several in a 

124 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

row, distinguished by a simple slab, nailed over the 
solitary window of the second floor, and bearing 
the inscription: 

HERE WAS BORN 

JEAN T. VENARD 

Nov. 21, 1829 

Martyred in Tongking, Feb. 2, 1861. 

I was anxious to enter at once, but M. le Cure of 
St. Loup must first be visited. He was expecting 
Father Eusebius and the stranger; and the young 
seminarians were anxiously awaited by their brother 
who resided with his family in the town. The 
formalities of the occasion were scrupulously ob- 
served — salutations from M. le Cure of St. Loup 
to all, and a visit to the church with proper praise 
for its fine appearance and latest improvements. 
Then we crossed the street to the maison paternelle. 

The house still belonged to the Venard family, 
which meant that Eusebius was its proprietor. 
From the kind reception we received at the hands of 
the present tenant I concluded that my host was 
an easy " landlord," and the lack of modem im- 
provements, with the accumulation of ancient in- 
conveniences, made me suspect that the occupant 
was hardly a fussy tenant. Under the stone lintel 
we passed, through the dark passage-way, out into 

125 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

the garden where Theophane and Melanie had 
spent long, happy hours nursing the tender plants 
which blossomed for Our Lord's tabernacle and 
Our Lady's shrine. As he stood by the well, 
Eusebius pointed here and there to special bushes 
which Theophane had set out in his vacation days, 
and to others which Melanie had nurtured. Here, 
while little Eusebius played alone, the elder brother 
and sister had often conversed about their voca- 
tions, and I thought of Melanie, when Theophane 
had left her, stealing out here in the shade of the 
evening to read and re-read her brother's precious 
letters, full of love and hope, of fervor and 
confidence. 

Oh, if you did but know how my poor head works 
when I am all alone, and can't sleep for thinking! How 
happy I should be in a quiet country parish with my 
Melanie! I would guide the good people to try and 
save their souls, and you would have care of the church ; 
and together we would labor for God, and talk of Him 
and His Mother, and of all those we have loved and 
lost. But one thought troubles me in the midst of these 
castles in the air. All this is very good and very pleasant 
certainly; but when it comes to the point, what is the 
priesthood? Is it not the entire detachment from all 
worldly goods — a complete abandonment of all tem- 
poral interests? To be a priest, one should be a saint. 
To guide others, one must first learn to guide oneself. 
Then should not the life of a good priest be one of con- 
tinual sacrifice, self-immolation, and mortification of all 
kinds? How in the world should I ever have the cour- 

126 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

age to embrace such a life, — I, who am so little ad- 
vanced in the paths of virtue, or of penance? 

These are my thoughts, darling sister, and they always 
come back to the same. 

We returned into the house. It seemed dark and 
poorly lighted, perhaps because Melanie and Theo- 
phane were no longer there, — Melanie, whom 
Theophane seemed so often to see, " going lightly 
about the house, singing softly as was her wont, do- 
ing things for her father and the children and every- 
body." I glanced into the living room, at the fire- 
side, where, in the course of the trying fortnight 
preceding Theophane's departure, the family was 
wont to gather, when there would often be a dead 
silence, the father content with pressing his son's 
hand, not trusting himself to speak. Eusebius was 
a chubby little fellow then, but old enough to real- 
ize the sacredness of those hours and he recalled 
vividly how Theophane would cheer them all and 
excite his boyish imagination with droll stories or 
with accounts of the countries which he was soon 
to visit. 

Here Melanie had lingered each night after 
the others to get the last kiss, the last word, and 
the firm pressure of the hand that silently told the 
deep affection of her brother's heart. Here on the 
memorable eve of departure, when the tired father 
and Henry and little Eusebius had gone to bed, 
Theophane and Melanie kept the long vigil until 

127 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

day broke after a night all too short for the inter- 
change of thought and holy promises between these 
children of Christ; and both crossed the street to 
lay their resolutions at the tabernacle door, and to 
welcome into their souls Him in Whom they are 
united forever. Ten years later Theophane found 
sweet consolation in the remembrance of that vigil. 
From Tongking he wrote: 

It was with you, dearest Melanie, that I passed the 
solemn night which was our last meeting on earth and 
which we spent in a conversation so full of intimate 
thoughts and feelings of sympathy and holy hope that it 
reminded me of the farewell of St. Benedict and St. 
Scholastica. It is only fair that in the last hour your 
brother should think of you and send you a few final 
words of love and never-dying remembrance. 

In the room in which I was then standing the 
last dinner had been taken, after which the family, 
together with their pastor, recited the rosary, then 
read a chapter from the '' Imitation," and said the 
evening prayers, which Theophane alone had the 
courage to lead. As he finished, Eusebius tells us, 
he threw himself at his father's feet to receive his 
blessing, and knelt for the final blessing of the 
beloved Cure. Henry had gone out to see if the 
carriage was ready; Eusebius, sobbing as if his little 
heart would break, threw himself into his brother's 
arms, reluctant to lose his hold. Melanie, kissing 
him and crying, "Only once more! " fell back al- 

128 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

most fainting^ and the father in silent grief leaned 
on the old priest for support. With a last embrace 
Theophane saluted his half-unconscious sister and 
rushed to the carriage. Henry alone was witness 
to what followed when the tension of grief was 
loosed. Theophane, burying his face in his hands, 
cried bitterly and uncontrollably to relieve the poor 
heart which had borne the awful ordeal so bravely. 

These memories were enough. Father Eusebius 
let me look for a moment into the birth-chamber, 
which had also witnessed the early death of their 
good mother. We passed out again into the street, 
over to the presbytery where the Cure was ready 
to greet us with a kindly welcome to his hospitable 
board. 

The good parishioners of St. Loup, the diocesan 
news, the coming retreat at Poitiers, the Chamber 
of Deputies, the outlook for the persecuted Church, 
American customs and Catholic progress in the 
United States, — all these and several other sub- 
jects made a lively accompaniment to the sub- 
stantial repast provided by our host, in the course 
of which M. le Cure of Assais did not fail to 
quietly call the attention of M. le Cure of St. Loup 
to the manner in which they take bread with butter 
in America. And the stranger was not less amused 
when, from time to time, his host's right arm found 
its way into a huge, deep basket conveniently placed 
at his side, and brought out a loaf of bread 
almost the width of the table. 

129 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

At the close we passed into the shade of the 
garden and in a few moments were joined by our 
companions who, fresh from their own dinner, were 
waiting to escort us to Bel-Air, the scene of Theo- 
phane's call to the apostolate and to martyrdom. 



130 




IV 

THE PILGRIMAGE TO BEL^AIR 

JETTING out from the Cure's garden at 
St. Loup, we took the street to the left 
and crossed the substantial bridge 
which spans the Thouet only a few 
^rods away. We had not gone far when a 
bend in the road, down a short incline, brought 
us in full view of the silent and beautiful 
stream, which at this point runs under a per- 
fect vista of trees. It was early in the after- 
noon and the sun was hot. The shaded nook 
was so grateful that we stood for some mo- 
ments leaning on the bridge-rail, watching the 
waters as they flowed swiftly by these banks, from 
which, doubtless, many a time the future martyr 
had, with his companions, plunged into the current. 
We resumed our walk, which soon led us to 
a line of peasants' homes, and turning into the 
court-yard of one, we were greeted by a bright 
little mademoiselle about eight years old, who, in 
danger of being spoiled by her three seminarian 
uncles, seemed anxious to accompany them on our 
pilgrimage to Bel-Air. So with a little lady's white 

131 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

dress to relieve the five black cassocks, we con- 
tinued our walk; and before long I noticed on the 
hill-top which we were approaching the stone apse 
of the memorial chapel, which Eusebius, as I had 
already been informed, had started many years 
ago to build. 

Bel-Air is on a rise of land between the Thouet 
and Cebron rivers and commands a picturesque 
view o>f the surrounding country. Several acres 
belonged to the elder Venard, who had been a 
school-master in the town and later a justice of the 
peace. The property still remained in the hands 
of Eusebius and his brother Henry, the only sur- 
viving heirs. As we arrived, Eusebius let down the 
bars, and we took a path, overgrown with weeds, 
that led to the chapel site. A few yards in the 
rear, and commanding the valley, was a plain 
stone shaft with commemorative inscriptions on its 
several sides. Here Theophane Venard, at only 
nine years of age, was one day reading aloud to 
some of his little companions the life of Charles 
Cornay, whose home was not far from St. Loup and 
who had been recently martyred in Tongking. The 
death of this young priest, a former student of the 
Missions Etrangeres in Paris, was magnificent, and 
the letters which he wrote to his parents on the 
eve of his martyrdom are typical of that sublime 
heroism which has always characterized the fear- 
less apostles of Jesus Christ. 

132 




THE MARTYRD0:M of father CHARLES CORNAY 
Painted by a Tongkingese artist. {See page 132) 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

Theophane was moved to tears as he read those 
letters, and at the end he cried out: ^' And I too, 
will go to Tongking; and I too, will be a martyr! " 

" A strange ambition," you say, " for a nine- 
teenth century child — this thirst for martyrdom.'' 
But the Catholic Church has martyrs in every age, 
and in the last century her record was no less glori- 
ous than in any which preceded it. A true Cath- 
olic has no fear of sufferings and death. Certainly 
if any form of cruelty could have frightened this 
young soldier of Christ, the story of Father Cor- 
nay's martyrdom ought to have done so, for he was 
literally dismembered. 

It would almost seem that Theophane Venard 
foresaw on this occasion the manner and place of 
his own death. This much is certain: his subse- 
quent assignment to Tongking, rather than to any 
other mission field, was made by his superiors in 
Paris without any knowledge of the youth's pref- 
erence. And from his cage, on the eve of his 
martyrdom he wrote to Eusebius: 

By the time you receive this letter your brother's head 
will have fallen. . . . That was the dream of my youth. 
When, as a little man, nine years old, I used to take my 
pet goat to browse on the slopes of Bel-Air, I loved to 
say to myself, " And I, too, will go to Tongking, and I, 
too, will be a martyr! " 

Eusebius tells that on this occasion, soon after 
the children had finished their reading, M. Venard, 

133 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

coming out from the town, joined the little group, 
and was suddenly met with the question from Theo- 
phane, '' Father, how much is this field worth? '' 
The father could not say and asked why he wished 
to know. The little fellow answered at once, " Be- 
cause if you could let me have it now as my share, 
I would sell it and then I would go to college and 
study." These words, so seriously uttered by tiie 
boy, affected his father, who within a short period 
of time arranged for the education of his son. 

We did not stay long at Bel-Air. The day was 
perfectly clear but the sun was scorching and there 
was little shade. I half suspected, however, that 
even under more favorable conditions, my vener- 
able host would have preferred not to remain. He 
had long dreamed of his beautiful chapel at Bel- 
Air, to which he would transfer from his own 
home and from Paris the relics and souvenirs of 
his martyred Theophane. The plans of the build- 
ing were all prepared and he had often thought 
of this shrine as completed, with priests climbing 
the hill to offer Mass there, and devout pilgrims 
coming from near and far to venerate the relics. 
But that was many years ago and today the lonely 
apse, roughly boarded against the passing storm, 
only laughs at his dream. 

Theophane Venard is one of many mart3n:s in 
France, and it is not easy to arouse widespread 
enthusiasm among people to whom Christian hero- 

134 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

ism is nothing new. And since troublous times had 
fallen upon the country, even if the money had 
been forthcoming, it would have been unwise to 
build in a land where no property was sacred. The 
relics of Theophane Venard, with those of other 
martyrs from the Rue du Bac, had been recently 
moved to another country. The old brother could 
hardly enjoy such a reminder of his disappointed 
hopes as was Bel-Air, so we started down the hill 
again, towards the town. 

Ahead of us I saw a group of children, just dis- 
missed from school. Most of them were hasten- 
ing to their homes, laughing merrily, but we caught 
up to two who loitered after the rest, — a boy and 
a girl, bearing the same family resemblance in faces 
that were gentle and full of reverence. Had it been 
an earlier generation, Theophane and Melanie 
might have been their names. 

We escorted la petite mademoiselle to her wait- 
ing mother, who regaled us with some of the fa- 
mous St. Loup cheese — an indescribable, dust- 
covered concoction — while one of the seminari- 
ans and their brother who had just returned from 
the fields hitched up our horse. We called to say 
good-by to the Cure and were soon on the road to 
Assais, where M. Henry, the bonne, and Kebis 
were anxiously awaiting our return. 

Full justice was done to the excellent dinner 
prepared for us. Then, when the Cure's cigarette- 

I3S 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

case had been returned to its place on the mantel, 
we sauntered out in the cool of the evening to in- 
quire for our three companions and to express our 
thanks for the use of the family '' rig." A few 
moments brought us to the door of the Huctin 
house, a typical French village home of stone and 
plaster, with tiled roof. Our entrance caused 
much commotion, but order was soon restored and 
^I found myself in a good-sized dining-room, with 
the kitchen fireplace at one end, a dresser opposite, 
and against the rear wall two stately, high-draped 
beds. 

A door which opened on the right revealed 
several stalls, including one for the faithful beast 
that had given us our day's outing. The table was 
bountifully laden with bread, lettuce and vege- 
tables; a bottle with a long-necked attachment 
passed occasionally from one to another of the oc- 
cupants, each of whom in turn^ without touching 
the decanter to the lips, skilfully poured a stream 
of red wine with unerring aim into his wide-open 
mouth. Farm-hands ate with the members of the 
family, and when the repast was over the good 
mother of the household pointed out on the wall 
a picture of her daughter, the nun in India, and 
rehearsed the beautiful letter which had come from 
the little missioner only a few days before. 

The full moon was shining over the church 
steeple as we returned along the cemetery wall to 

136 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

the presbytery; and that night, as I read again the 
martyr's letters which hung on my chamber wall, 
,1 felt that a harvest of precious and useful mem- 
ories had been gathered from the day's pilgrimage 
to Bel-Air. 



137 




V 

A SUNDAY WITH THE ABB& V&NARD 

A GRANDE MESSE was to be chanted 
at 9.30 in Assais. Now it was no 
extraordinary occurrence to have High 
Mass on Sunday in this little village, 
but, for the first time in the recollection of the 
oldest inhabitant, a priest from America was to 
officiate, and the occasion was an interesting one, — 
at least to the stranger. 

The day was clear and the sun hot on the white 
walls of the presbytery, by the time the people 
began to arrive in little groups, as the old bell 
rang out the third and last call. Most of the vil- 
lagers in St. Loup are church-goers; and the white- 
coiffed matrons and young girls, neatly dressed men 
and small boys, passed around the Cure's wall into 
the court which served as an approach to the 
church. 

I was preparing to leave the garden walk for the 
sacristy when the presbytery door opened, and the 
sexton, a sun-burnt toiler clad in homespun, came 
rapidly across the yard carrying under one arm a 
strange-looking piece of furniture on which I no- 

138 




CANON EUSEBIUS VENARD IN HIS STUDY 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

ticed two octaves of ivory keys with an extended 
string of cat-gut. A fiddle bow dangled from his 
little finger, and I began to realize that I was in 
danger of a few distractions. I followed into the 
cool sanctuary, blessed the water, and prepared 
for the celebration. Fortunately, during the As- 
perges I became acquainted with and resigned to 
the instrument of torture which I had already dis- 
covered. It was a monochord, used to sustain the 
chant of the congregation. The recent ^' motu 
propria '' on church music hardly needed a pro- 
mulgation in St. Loup, where for generations the 
people have been accustomed to render the old 
chant of the Church with its varying modes. 

As soon as the Asperges had been intoned, the 
sexton, who had installed his instrument on the 
Gospel side of the sanctuary, began to saw vigor- 
ously with the violin bow, regulating the tones by 
pressing in turn the yellow keys that lay beneath 
his muscular left hand. Beside him, in uncon- 
scious dignity, stood one of his fellow musicians, 
also within the sanctuary, but decently dressed in 
civilian's clothes, and practically hidden behind a 
huge parchment-bound " Graduale," from which 
long ribbon markers hung, soiled by wear. Across 
the sanctuary, in best cassocks and stainless sur- 
plices, were Basil, Alfred, and Valentine, the three 
seminarians, with M. le Cure presiding over all 
behind the episcopal kneeler, seconding, or rather 

139 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

eclipsing, the efforts of the head chanter. It was 
not often that the good pastor had such an oppor- 
tunity as this, and it was quite natural that he 
should take advantage of it. 

Outside the chancel there was activity, too. 
Some of the worshipers used books; more, including 
the bonne, who occupied a kneeler in the first 
row, were so familar with the chant and the Latin 
words that they could easily dispense with the text. 
The voices were not particularly sweet, and the 
accompaniment, as may be imagined, was far 
from soothing, but the entire Mass, with Kyrie, 
Gloria, Credo, Offertory, Sanctus and Communion, 
was chanted correctly and intelligently by these 
simple people. 

The presence of the stranger offered a subject, 
jif not a text, for the Cure. After the Gospel he 
ascended the narrow steps which led to the pul- 
pit, high perched against a stalwart column, and 
paid tribute to the American who had explored their 
wilderness, drawn thither by his love for the mar- 
tyr of St. Loup. He told the people how they 
should appreciate the virtues of the " Venerable " 
when one would come from so great a distance to 
make a pilgrimage to his birtiiplace and to see his 
relatives. 

Incidentally during his remarks the old priest 
apologized for the stranger's shortcomings, saying 
that the latter had a very peculiar pronunciation 

140 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

of the Latin, but in spite of this could sing pretty 
well. Perhaps he expected some Indian wail. In 
any event no one dared to smile at the comment, 
which was given out with perfect seriousness. 

The Angelus rang after Mass. The people again 
congregated in little groups outside the church, 
then moved on to their homes. Soon afterwards 
we were sipping coffee freshly made by the trem- 
,bling hands of the smiling old bonne, who now 
enjoyed the distinction of a personal acquaintance 
with the pretre sauvage, and could whisper her 
observations occasionally to some visitor at the 
garden gate, when the Cure was not looking. 

The sun was well down on the long horizon when 
the old bell rang again for Vespers, and the people 
gathered for what proved to be a memorable 
service. 

In the course of the afternoon, the stranger, who 
had been studying the mechanism of the wonderful 
monochord — which Father Eusebius was seriously 
thinking of replacing with an instrument slightly 
improved on the same general lines — learned that 
there was a harmonium on the premises. A few 
months earlier when the " Captivity and Martyr- 
dom of the Venerable Theophane " was enacted in 
the courtyard of the presbytery, a real harmonium 
was rented from Poitiers, and for that occasion an 
organist was secured. The instrument was still 
waiting to be returned. 

141 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

Now the American had spent many hours, weary 
and otherwise, during his seminary course, at the 
bench of an enlarged harmonium, and as soon as 
this knowledge was revealed to the Cure, a special 
program of psalms and hymns was prepared for 
the Vesper and Benediction service, and the Cure 
gave more self-satisfied grunts than usual that 
afternoon. 

That evening after dinner, as we strolled around 
,the cemetery wall, he insisted on stopping wher- 
ever he found a group of people to get their esti- 
mate of the day's happenings, and to receive their 
approbation of the special menu which he had so 
thoughtfully provided for their spiritual and 
sensible appetites. 

I had begun to warm to the good old priest by 
this time, and looked forward with regret to the 
day of departure, which I had decided should be 
the following Tuesday. 



142 




VI 

ADIEU TO ASSAIS 

T was Monday afternoon and I was near- 
ing the end of a most agreeable and 
profitable visit. My host had been 
interrupted while reading aloud to me 
the letters of his martyred brother, Theophane, 
and was on his way to a sick call. He had started, 
it must be confessed, with poor grace, fully aware 
that it was only the whim of a nervous hypo- 
chondriac that had called him from his absorbing 
occupations to a hot and dusty walk beyond the 
outskirts of his parish. 

I continued for some time alone, reading the 
finely written manuscript, and about an hour be- 
fore sun-down ventured a short walk around the 
village. I had only to follow the outline of the 
cemetery, where, in raised earth protected by a 
massive wall, the villagers had placed their dead 
within the very shadows of the roofs which in life 
had sheltered them. Now this promenade should 
have taken a short ten minutes, but the peasants 
,were returning from the fields, and as by this time 
the visitor was no longer a stranger, he was 
naturally delayed. 

143 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

The peasants of Assais are not ambitions and 
the horizon line of their daily life does not extend 
any considerable distance, but they are keen and 
anxious to learn when an opportunity is afforded 
them. A few ideas at first hand concerning the 
United States would serve them as a capital asset 
for future occasions, social and otherwise; so it is 
not to be wondered at that the unsuspecting Ameri- 
can was soon drawn into an interested circle. 

All seemed to be going well, and, for a time, as 
I noted the intent expression on the faces of the 
little group surrounding me, I felt that I was im- 
parting useful information. Soon, however, I be- 
came aware of a counter-attraction. My back was 
turned to the cemetery and over my shoulders the 
eyes of my hearers were wandering while inexplica- 
ble smiles played on their lips. At length I turned, 
and there across the street, high above us, leaning 
over the wall with threatening gestures, was M. le 
Cure. He soon descended to where we were stand- 
ing and explanations followed. He had returned to 
the presbytery and found his guest flown. The 
bonne had searched the church. Then fearing some 
evil hand, he had come out into the cemetery, 
taking it as an observation point, and there dis- 
covered me trying to wean the affections of his 
people and steal the parish from him. With an 
assumedly serious countenance he took me some- 
what roughly by the arm and marched me back to 

144 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

,the house. The little flurry cleared before the even- 
ing meal began and when the lamp was lighted we 
settled down again to the reading and to a final 
chat before my departure. 

It was late that night when we retired, but both 
of us were on hand for early Masses the next 
morning; and breakfast was hardly over when the 
springless vehicle, carrying the three semi- 
narians, halted outside the garden gate. I 
need not linger over the adieus. The patriarchal 
Henry was most cordial and his faithful Kebis 
seemed friendly now that the stranger was leaving. 
The bonne, dressed for the occasion, gave every 
possible evidence that the American had been a 
welcome guest. With a promise to return, and a 
wave of the hand, we were soon on the road to 
Airvault, the nearest railway station which the main 
line touches from Bordeaux to Paris. 

Father Eusebius said little, though I felt that in 
his mind was a thought which he had already ex- 
pressed several times, that old age was creeping on 
him, and that this might be our last meeting on 
earth, unless I should return soon to France. The 
drive was pleasant withal, and the companionship of 
Basil, Alfred, and Valentine brightened it not a 
little. The five miles were soon covered and we 
drove past the old church through the line of houses 
to the little railway station. 

We had not long to wait for the train, which 

145 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

stole slowly in as Eusebius gave me a final em- 
brace. I was the only passenger from Air- 
vault, and with three pairs of bright young eyes 
to help me I soon found an empty compartment. 
With ^^ Bon voyage! '' from dear old Father Euse- 
bius and his budding priests still ringing in my 
ears, I settled down to my journey, thankful for 
all that I had seen and heard to edify my poor 
soul — battered by the ceaseless cares of priestly 
life in a busy American city. 



146 




" The patriarchal Henry was cordial and his faithful Kehis 
seemed friendly, ''^ {PO'ge 145) 




VII 

A LAST VISIT TO FATHER VSnARD 

T was in August, 191 1, and I was return- 
ing from Rome with the glad news that 
the late Holy Father, Pius X., had ap- 
proved the establishment of an Ameri- 
can Seminary for Foreign Missions. In Paris at 
the Rue du Bac, where Theophane Venard had pre- 
pared for his mission, I learned, as I had learned 
eight years before, that the martyr's brother was 
yet alive. 

I had often written to the dear old Cure since 
my first visit, and had in fact managed to spend a 
few days with him in the summer of 1910, but I 
tnew that he had sung his " Nunc Dimittis " in 
Rome the day his beloved Theophane was beatified, 
and that he had been failing in health ever since. 

At Airvault, the nearest railway station to Assais, 
the village over which Father Eusebius presided 
as pastor, I found the favorite parishioner waiting 
with his cumbersome cart to drive me over the 
plains, but the face that I longed to see was missing 
and I realized that my venerable friend was no 
longer strong enough to travel. 

147 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

I found him waiting for me in the garden and as 
I pushed open the old gate — the solitary break 
in a high stone wall — he rose to embrace me. 

'' Le dernier fois/' he murmured, — " the last 
time," — but I reassured him, and arm in arm we 
entered the house. 

He stopped several times in that short passage 
to describe the stiffness of his poor old rheumatic 
leg; and after the laborious ceremony of settling 
himself at his accustomed place in the living- 
room — which was also his dining-room — he con- 
tinued the story of his illness; but soon, as always, 
he was back to the one subject that had domi- 
nated his life — le Bienhereux, as he proudly re- 
ferred to his martyr-brother. 

I glanced around the familiar room occasionally 
and noted a few changes. The daguerreotypes of 
Theophane and Melanie had been brought down 
stairs from the guest-room and hung above the 
mantel. One chair had been covered with some 
purple calico, already faded, in honor of the Cure's 
elevation to the position of an honorary canon, but 
the place looked poorer and less tidy than ever. 

The bonne came in to light the lamp, and 
as I introduced myself — a necessary precaution — 
my mind went back to her predecessor, now in a 
little dust quiescent but then ready for a talk when- 
ever the Cure's back was turned. The new bonne, 
who was really antique, looked at me sus- 

148 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

piciously, and quickly retired to work up the fire 
with the bellows that, I had noticed in passing, 
was still doing service in the kitchen. 

This led to questions about the parishioners 
whose acquaintance I had previously cultivated. 

I learned that the Huctin family, which had 
already given four foreign missioners to the 
Church, had that day been presented with a new 

baby; that M. , whose wine was the talk of the 

department, had continued always kind and gener- 
ous; that the sexton, whose performance on the 
monochord — a species of harmonium that saws 
out notes in chunks — had so disturbed my first 
High Mass in Assais, was away on a little holiday; 
and that Father Eusebius was no longer a solitary 
Cure, but in these his declining years had accepted 
from the Bishop of Poitiers an offer of a vicaire, 
— an assistant. 

I breathed more freely when I learned that the 
vicaire was having a couple of days off, — an ar- 
rangement, I believe, which was initiated by the 
announcement of my visit. I should, of course, 
have been happy to salute the young priest, and 
perhaps I could have secured from him much that 
would have been useful and interesting to a friend 
of the Venard family, but — having often met old 
pastors and young curates, and talked with each 
separately, I feared to be disabused about my 
venerable host, whom I had already on former oc- 

149 



IN THE HOMES OF MARTYRS 

casions gauged as a delightful old crank with a 
heart of pure gold tried by many a fire. 

An important item of news that Father Eusebius 
soon gave me was that a new bell had been placed 
in the old church in honor of the martyr, and the 
old gentleman impressively announced that it would 
be rung the next morning in honor of the visitor. 

In the course of the evening I learned that all 
arrangements had been made to guard the treasury 
of relics and souvenirs which had been to Father 
Eusebius what gold is to a miser. The most 
precious things were still in the presbytery, and 
we looked them over the following morning; but I 
soon realized that it would be useless even to hint 
a desire to possess them, and I watched the trem- 
bling hands wrap each in its fold of cloth and lay 
it reverently away. 

At noon of the next day, my last at Assais, the 
bell rang violently, and I was suddenly aware of 
its significance, — but nothing happened. The 
village had grown accustomed to the signal that 
some stranger was visiting the celebrated Cure. 
On this occasion, however, it served the purpose 
of calling to the church a little group of parish- 
ioners with the Huctin baby, — a future missioner, 
doubtless, this niece (or was it the nephew?) of 
three priests and their sister in Eastern Asia. The 
Cure remained at home while the guest baptized 
the child and later visited the happy household, 

ISO 



ASSAIS AND ST. LOUP 

That afternoon I said adieu to Eusebius Venard, 
— for le dernier jois. 

Some months later the Cure of St. Loup, where 
the Venard family was reared, and where today 
the martyr's relics are kept, sent me word of my 
old friend's death. 



THE END 



For theirs is the kingdom of 
heaven, who loved not their lives 
in this world, and have attained 
unto the reward of the kingdom, 
and have washed their robes in 
the blood of the Lamb. 

{Roman Breviary) 




iSi 



